All That Glows

Twenty-Two

Although I can’t see the sunrise, some deep part of me feels the sun’s beams first kiss the earth. Outside the world is just beginning to take shape: a watercolor layered over and over with brighter shades. I stand by the window, greeting the pastel light as it washes through the curtains. When the rosy rays of the sun lap onto the bed, Richard squirms and tries to yank the covers over his head.

“Good morning.” I smile in spite of the Old One. In spite of everything. “I think you should take the day off.”

“What?” His voice is hoarse. “It’s my first official day as king! I don’t think it’ll go over too well if I just disappear.”

“That’s the beauty of magic. I can clear your schedule. No one will notice.” I lean against the bed, hoping he won’t fight much more. If he does I might lose my courage, forget the words I’m so determined to say. “Take a day off. For me. We’ll go out and see the city.”

Richard rakes an absent hand through his wayward hair. Like some grandiose magician, he sweeps the sheets away. “You can do that? Clear my schedule? Why didn’t you do that the last time?”

I fight back a grimace, decide to be honest. “I didn’t think of it. But we won’t make that mistake again. The paparazzi and the public won’t recognize you today,” I call as he shambles off to the bathroom. “Or me for that matter.”

“You?” He pokes his head back out of the doorway.

“It wouldn’t be a very good date if I was invisible to everyone, would it? Now hurry up and get ready.” My insides tremble, but I don’t betray their nervousness. My grin is so tight it’s almost painful as I shoo him back into the loo.

A good ten minutes passes with me alone in the bedroom. I try my hardest not to think of what I want to say. What I have to say. The thought turns my stomach over and over. Far more terrifying than the idea of hunting soul feeders with Breena tonight.

I’m almost to the point of talking myself out of it when Richard steps out of the bathroom. His hair is combed back, a few loose, wet strands hanging over his eyes. His jaw is clean, as smooth as his chest. The fresh scent of soap clings to his skin, the towel around his waist. It’s all I can do to stay by the bed while he disappears into his wardrobe for a suitable outfit.

“Nothing too nice,” I tell him. “Try jeans and a T-shirt.”

His laugh echoes into the cavernous room. “I think I know how to blend in. You, however, are the last one I’d turn to for fashion tips.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I look down at my outfit. Layer after layer of colors. Sea-foam tulle peeking out from aqua and daffodil cotton. Silver-threaded plum fabric mixes steadily with champagne silk.

“That’s not exactly street wear. Where did you get all of those skirts anyway?”

I spend a few seconds in steaming silence before I decide the anger isn’t worth it. “They were my favorites. I’ve seen a lot of styles over the years. If I saw something I liked, I would snatch it after the queens and duchesses took them off.”

“You stole them?” Richard emerges from the wardrobe fully dressed. I see he’s taken my suggestion, with a simple red T-shirt to contrast his well-worn jeans.

“I suppose you could see it that way. I prefer to think of it as payment for those many hours spent watching them.” I roll my eyes at the memories of teatimes and garden parties crammed with endless, droning conversations about society.

“How morally ambiguous of you.” He pauses and looks around the room. “God, this place is a mess.”

“That’s generally what happens when you don’t clean for weeks on end.” I nudge the nearest pile of shriveled button-ups with my toe. “Or when you lock your door so the maids can’t come in.”

“I just feel weird having them go through my stuff.” Richard moves over to the other side of the bed, makes a feeble attempt at straightening the sheets. “Hey—do you think you could—”

“No.”

His eyebrows arch up in mock plea as he lets go of the sheets and laces his hands together. “Please? It’d just take you a second. Like Mary Poppins.”

“I’m not magicking your room clean,” I tell him, resisting the temptation to ask who Mary Poppins is. “It’s a waste of valuable energy.”

“Oh well. It was worth a try.” He shrugs. “Maybe next year. For my birthday.”

My throat becomes a desert. Cracked and long dry. If we stay in the path of the Old One, this unyielding hurricane, there likely won’t be a next year.

Richard is too blinded by the newness of morning and the wrinkles in his sheets to notice my pause. “Where do you keep all your skirts? Like when you wore that other dress. The green one.”

“In an invisible closet.”

“No, really.” He flops forward on the mattress, rumpling the sheets he just pretended so hard to tidy.

“I . . . I dunno. I guess I just wish them away. It’s like anything else. My hair, my skin, my eyes. I decide what I want and it just appears. The green dress was for a special occasion.”

“I liked it. A lot.” Richard is on his hands and knees, crawling forward at the speed of a garden snail.

“It’s not really street wear either. Do you want me to change into something less bright?” I shut my eyes and picture myself in an outfit almost identical to Richard’s. He gives a grunt of surprise and I look down to find myself in a scarlet shirt and jeans. The trousers are so tight, constricting.

“No. Keep the skirts. I like them. They’re you.”

He’s close now. The gravity of him tugs, luring me into his orbit. I want to be as close to him as possible. Even closer.

But the whiteness of the sheets glares back at me. A reminder of what happened the last time we kissed on the bed. How the wildness is still inside me. Ready to kill.

Richard reaches out, his hand grazing mine. The skin he touches becomes hot and biting, sparks of desire. I tighten my fingers around his.

“Skirts it is.”

“So,” he says, all grin and re-mussed hair, “how about that date?”