Free All That Burns by Ryan Graudin Page A

whisper of a spell.
    There are shiftings in the earth. Old powers waking.
    Old powers. Like the royals’ blood magic.
    “I—” Anabelle blinks and stands, jeans dripping. “Of course not. I wasn’t standing that close.”
    Had I really felt something? Or was it all just a mirage? Phantom pains of magic lost? The way an amputee still feels the twitch of his toes.
    “It was an accident.” The princess wipes her hands over the wet of her jeans. “That’s all.”
    She’s so convincing when she says this. So solid and sure. I look down at the puddle under my feet. It’s already soaking into my ballet flats. Pieces of my reflection waver off its surface.
    I stare at my arm again. The gooseflesh is gone, but the scabs from Guinevere’s nails remain. Red and still soft. Barely sealed from last night’s dream fall.
    Manic dreams and phantom magic. Is this what the seeds of insanity feel like?
    Is this how it began for Guinevere?
    I try to push these thoughts away as I bend down, use what little magic there is inside me to form a mending spell and make the vase whole again.
    For all of Anabelle’s fretting, the coronation ball is well attended—by visitors from far and wide. Countless languages drift about the room, tickling the dreamy edges of Faery light chandeliers and nonpoisonous floral arrangements (which Eric and Jensen have checked yet again).
    I stand in the corner of the room while the guests arrive. Their coats fall away, revealing tuxedoes and gowns. They grab champagne flutes, gather in herds to talk about politics and prose.
    “Is that the king of Tonga?” Richard lingers beside me, studying the newest arrival—a slender man in a suit full of sashes and medals. “It is, isn’t it? Oh, drat. What’s his name again?”
    I watch as Anabelle—who’s already trotted nearly a kilometer in her heels, flitting from group to group with a graceful grin—greets the newcomer.
    “I’m not even really sure where Tonga is,” I tell him.
    “Me neither. But don’t tell anyone.” His warm breath prickles the edges of my ear. Makes me wish he was closer. “Geography was one of those classes I always considered optional. I was supposed to study that massive guest folder Anabelle put together for me, but I haven’t had the time.”
    Richard’s sister is glaring at him— Get over here now or else spelled out by fierce brown eyes.
    “Looks like I’m about to fail a foreign relations test.” He sighs and places a hand on the small of my back. Lightly, lightly. These are what his touches have been since that night: careful, never too close. Torturous and aching in the worst of ways. “Care to join me?”
    I know I should go with him. Stay by his side and smile until my cheeks go numb. But there’s a reason I’m watching the door. Waiting.
    I can’t do anything about the dreams or Richard’s unspoken fears. But Titania’s silence—that I can fix. And I plan to, as soon as the Faery queen makes her grand entrance.
    “I’m going to stay here,” I say.
    “I see how it is.” His hand falls away. Not that it matters. His touch so barely there I can’t even tell the difference.
    I think of the pages in the binder I helped Anabelle put together. The one Richard was supposed to study. “His name is King Tupou.”
    “What would I do without you?” I don’t even try to answer as he walks away.
    More faces flood through the door. Page after page from Anabelle’s binder brought to life. The prime minister of Canada and his wife. Lord and Lady Winfred. The president of France. Richard’s mother, Queen Cecilia.
    “Expecting something to happen?”
    “I’m sorry?” I turn at the voice and there they are. Eyes bluer than blue. Like the aqua wash of a curled neon sign.
    “You’re looking at the door as if it’s going to spontaneously combust.” Julian Forsythe smiles, and though his face is handsome, the expression looks all wrong. Painted like a clown’s grin. “Though I must say it wouldn’t