Morgan knew that there was nothing she could do that would stop the prince from arriving. The castle was already in a hurry to get ready for the arrival of King Marland’s son Awain. More people, decorations strewn about everywhere. The servants in a hurry to make the castle spotless. She imagined they wanted freedom at least for their beloved princess when they would get none of their own. She doubted that sentiment would remain once they saw Awain.

But Awain was not the problem. Simona had taken to the news without any reaction. The queen blamed shock. The girl had never had friends to whisper about handsome boys, about dreams and romances. How much she knew about matters, Morgan didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. She readied herself, wearing her best gown embroidered with gold and silver thread, the ivory of the dress melting into the color of her skin, the flowing skirts with thick maroon brocade trailing behind her.

She had worn her best jewelry, rubies shining at her ears and throat, a dozen thin bangles clinking at each of her wrists. Her anklets were of white gold, made to match her dress. The scented oil she rubbed into her skin got rid of the smell of blood, which never rid her easily. There was still a trace, but flowery sweetness overpowered it.

The queen looked through the gate. The first of King Marland’s carriages were arriving. Simona would be waiting below, welcoming them. The prince would be pleased by her, but the feelings couldn’t be reciprocated. The queen looked at herself in the mirror.

She wondered, looking into the mirror, if it was possible for anyone to look lovelier than she did at the moment. It was impossible she decided. She had been beautiful even before her transformation, but the difference after added perfection to her appearance. Her high cheekbones were tinted the lightest of rose, her gold curls every hair in place. Eyes like green lagoons, men used to tell her. She smiled at the way the dress draped over her body, as she and the cloth were one.

If she wasn’t enough to please her suitor, she would assume he would stay alone for the rest of eternity. She had sought one alliance and found herself with an offer of two. Her stepdaughter was getting married, and soon she would as well. Her prince was coming for her, and she looked out at the shadows cast by the light from the window. Late afternoon. He would arrive at midnight, she decided. With the moon at his back he would arrive in the night which was theirs and theirs alone.

She would leave Simona and Mirtlemeadow behind in the arms of her prince, the one that had turned her all those years ago. They had fought, yes, but he was the one that made her cold heart come to life. He was the one that she had loved for eons, worshipped until he had cast her off. She wondered if it was pathetic that she wanted him back. But he was her prince. She wouldn’t let the past come between them when he was almost at her door. They would unite, and she would conquer as she did before. Blood would flow in rivers, and the pitiful human kings who tried to overtake her would fall like saplings in a storm.

* * *

Simona looked at the old man in front of her. He was into sixty years of his life, large but far from imperious. His clothes were rich, too rich and his great expanse of stomach tested the strength of his belt heavily. A long red cape hung from his shoulders, fixed by two pins bearing gold eagles. She winced as the carriage lifted up as he stepped on to the ground. She had hoped that Awain was a road to freedom. It took her five seconds to decide that she would rather stay in her prison. The man had a squire at his side and an old woman at his left.

The squire was a forgettable young boy, small and sprightly. He held the curiosity of the average boy, and his hand reached for the short dagger at his hip. The old woman was more notable, and far less afraid. Various emotions passed over her face all the time. It was apprehension as they stepped out of the carriage, surprise as she looked around at the simplicity of the castle, and finally she looked at Sim. And Sim saw guilt and pity all at once.

They exchanged the formal greetings stiffly. She had worn her best gown, a light yellow with peacock feathers embroidered on the sleeves and hem. She curtsied deeply and wished she knew more about castle etiquette. The only other noble she had ever met was the queen, and considering their history it didn’t give her much experience at all. The prince nodded, though, so she assumed she had done something correctly.

Sim smiled amiably as he introduced her to his companions. Squire Mirran, a young son of the one of the richest men in the lands. He was a ward of the prince. Sim realized that the young boy was a prisoner as well, a method of keeping his rich father from having thoughts of treason. The woman was a witch. She wasn’t a witch like the queen, but a gentler sort. Sim knew without Awain telling her.

The soothsayer looked at the walls of the castle, yet seemed to look through them at the same time. She passed through the courtyard without speaking and walked into the castle. Her dress was a quilt of a thousand colors, vibrant but definitely not beautiful. Scars and lines etched every inch of her face, but she carried them with pride, not regret. She had pinned her pure white hair into a bun at the base of her neck, and wore a net of black lace over it. The metal walking stick was an afterthought as she strode through the halls, reaching the guest wing without asking anyone. Her servant, a mute girl Sim hadn’t even noticed in the group, placed a small bag on the writing desk as more soldiers brought in her trunks.

The old woman beckoned towards Sim with her finger, and smiled. Her teeth were stained black and brown, her eyes empty black circles. Yet Sim wasn’t afraid. This woman had given up something of herself for magic, but she was still human. She still had a heart that felt. That was enough for Sim to walk forward and place her hand in the woman’s outstretched palm.

The old fingers, each thin and gnarled, turned her hand over and stroked the lines of her left palm. The brows of the old woman furrowed, her hands tightening around Sim’s palm. Her voice murmured and growled, a woman arguing with a beast inside of her. Finally she let go, slipping onto the bed and letting her servant girl wipe down her face and arms, drenched in sweat.

“You have a dangerous time ahead of you, dearie. I’m only glad it does not involve our prince.”

Awain sighed and started to talk to his soldiers. Sim was relieved, and she was disappointed. The possibility of being a young widow was gone, but so was her chance at easy freedom. Sim looked at the foreign soldiers, already making arrangements for their return. So they shed all rules of diplomacy for the word of an old palm-reader. The prince didn’t even look disappointed.

“Our apologies for this, Princess Simona. We were ever so hopeful that this alliance would come to occur.”

“Yes, we were,” Mirran repeated.

Sim smiled at them, not sure what else to do. Her first suitor, and he had spurned her because of the lines on her hand. The dark sting of rejection still smarted somewhere in the back of her mind, but she pushed it aside. It wasn’t like she had wanted the match to occur, not after she had seen the man old enough to be her grandfather. But the visitors would be a welcome distraction as long as they stayed. She never had a tutor, always depending on the books of the library for every kernel of knowledge she accumulated.

“Perhaps we should go to tea,” she suggested. “The queen will join us.”

Awain paled a little, and the old woman made no indication of moving from the bed. He stiffly offered her his arm, and they walked together out of the room. He didn’t look around at all. Sim had to admit that there wasn’t much to see. Mirtlemeadow wasn’t a favorite stop for traders, hadn’t been for many years. Artists had stopped frequenting the castle five years before, when a particular young painter had asked the queen if he could paint Sim. She knew the man had never left the castle and now lay at the bottom of the moat, his paintbrushes and canvases accompanying him to his watery grave. Why the queen had reacted so strongly, she didn’t know. She had decided that the queen needed no reason for her cruelty. She doled it out on a daily basis without reason or rhyme, lives ending at her whim.

The gardens held the only truly beautiful things left in the castle. Sim thought so, anyway. Lace and satin were pretty, but the garden mesmerized all of her senses. No one could ever make a dress as soft as the petals of a rose bud, there was no jewels that were as pure as morning dew. She took the waste from the kitchens every day and used it as fertilizer, weeded and pruned. The garden was her domain, her pride and joy. She supposed that Awain had seen things a hundred times more beautiful, gardens so vast their end couldn’t be seen with the naked eye.

It was nearing dusk, the heavy orange sun making the dust in the air more apparent, filling the air with golden specks and an enveloping warmth. As the last of the red sun disappeared the queen emerged from the castle. She was displeased, Sim saw. They had just started, and she found herself enjoying Awain’s company. He was a wizened grandfather, telling her stories of his adventures and giving her advice on what to eat where and who not to speak to ever.

For an old man he knew so many things she never expected, like the best way to cook a wild pig and how to get a stubborn donkey to bend to one’s will. Sim knew most of the things he told her would never come to use, but she tucked them away. It was good to finally hear stories of other places without having to search through books and paint the pictures on her own. Mirran added his own details, and his input added another dimension to the tales. She saw the world from the eyes of a man who was surprised by nothing, and then through the wonder of a child’s eyes.

The queen walked down the staircase to the gardens. Unconsciously Awain rose, his hand still holding his teacup. Sim knew the effect the queen could have on men when she wanted to. Her ivory dress was beautiful, almost glowing in the shine of the lanterns at the door. She smiled, and it was impossible that she anything but an angel, a goddess. Sim turned away, telling herself the truth one more time.

“Your highness,” Awain said, kneeling and kissing the queen’s hand. Hands as cold as marble, as white. He pulled away quickly, remembering who she was, and more importantly, what she was. The queen settled herself down at Sim’s side and took her tea, sipping at it more for appearance than actual sustenance.

“Awain, I believe that we have met once before,” she said absentmindedly. “Your battle at Brittlebow I should think. It was eons ago.”

Awain knew that the battle had been his first, in the days when his white hair had been bright red and his limbs moved with the springy grace of a youth bent upon glory. It had been forty years ago. The woman in front of him wouldn’t even have been born by the time. It was an effective way to bring him back to reality. He wasn’t having tea with a beautiful woman and her charming step-daughter. He was having tea with a monster with a pretty disguise and her prisoner. She had lived for centuries, as the rumors went. He looked into those green eyes, so old and calculating, and he knew.

“Fate has been kind to me, Awain. And kind to you. Another alliance has been offered, and this one will not bend to the whims of a silly old woman who reads tea leaves and looks into crystal balls. I’m in quite a happy mood.”

Sim thought she didn’t look happy at all. She looked anxious, adjusting the rubies at her throat and smoothing down the skirts of her dress. Another alliance. It meant another prince. Sim wondered if it was how her future would be. Shown to every prince who was interested in an alliance, having no choice in the matter.

“Who is the prince, your highness?”

“No one you know, dear,” the queen replied. “An old friend of mine.”

The look on her face was different, adding a softness to her beauty. It was nostalgic and sweet. Sim wondered what the new suitor could have done to endear himself to the queen in such a way. The woman, as far as she knew, loved only the inanimate objects. Jewels, clothes, lands, gold, all that the queen could feel affection for. When it came to beings of flesh and blood, she felt only hunger.

“What is he like?”

* * *

The queen immediately detested the manner in which the question was asked. The soft innocence of it, the hope thinly veiled. Awain sat listening as well, curious as to who else would dare to associate with the cursed kingdom of Mirtlemeadow. The queen shot her stepdaughter a cold look.

“What he is like is none of your business, Simona. You really should learn to curb that curiosity of yours.”

“But I though-”

“Oh you stupid girl!”

And the queen was laughing. Cruel mocking laughter that sounded the chimes of bells echoed through the gardens long after she had stopped. The girl was really more naïve than she had thought. The queen stroked the ruby at her throat and smiled.

“The offer of marriage was not for you, my dear. It was for me. From Prince Nikayl of Margennar.”

It had been centuries since the name had passed from her mouth. She remembered sighing his name as she had dreamed of him while she worked, of hoping to at least get a touch of his cape. She had coveted a lock of his hair. Her first love, and her last. To think that they would reunite in such an odd way, finally as equals.