Defy the Dark

Christine Johnson Shadowed

The clash of swords rang across the field. The sound climbed the stone walls of the tower and danced through Esme’s window, accompanied by a chorus of cheers. She pressed against the tapestries that lined the walls, the parchment window covering she’d ripped down clutched in her hands. Carefully, slowly, she peered through the narrow window like a thief.

Why did it have to be sunny on a Tournament day? After a week of gray skies, when she’d been able to stand at the window and watch the pages set up the benches and decorate them with standards, she’d been heartbroken to wake today to such shining weather. She’d harbored no hope of leaving her rooms, but it would have been nice to see the mock battle without the sweating fear that the light would shift and her shadow would spring to life behind her.

From the field below the tower, the chime of steel against steel came faster and the crowd roared. Two knights staggered to the edge of the field and into Esme’s view. Their armor gleamed, still new enough to shine. The hair at the back of her neck stood on end as she watched them fight. One was significantly larger—a bear of a man with a stomach built to accommodate long nights of too much food and drink. He should have overpowered his opponent with little trouble. But the other knight, with a brass cap across each shoulder of his armor, ducked and danced as though the metal skin that he wore weighed nothing at all. His sword flickered through the air, the sun glinting off the blade as it swung.

The light hit the gleaming steel and shattered into a thousand rays. Esme caught her breath. She had never seen anything so bright. The mirrored flat of his sword turned the pollen-yellow glow into a white-hot beam that lanced painfully across her vision. After seventeen years of nothing but the dimmest and darkest, it was too much to bear. Her eyelids flew shut and she raised a hand to cover them, pitching forward as her knees turned weak beneath her.

Hers was not the only hand that brushed her skin, and the other was not so gentle. Her eyes sprang open, and in the mirror across the room, she saw her shadow pressed in close behind her. Panicked, Esme clawed at the inky hand that gripped her throat. She’d swayed too close to the window, too close to the sunlight.

With her voice crushed beneath the obsidian palm, she struggled toward the darkness in the room, but her shadow shoved her closer to the window. Stars exploded across her vision, a rainbow of lights that would have been beautiful if she weren’t so terrified.

For one instant, her gaze fell on the field below her, and she saw the more nimble knight crouch and spin, avoiding the clumsy arc of his opponent’s sword. Instinctively, Esme copied him, her skirts pooling on the floor as she bent her knees and swept in a half circle. The weight of her own shadow crashed against her back, its feet momentarily lifted from the floor. She fell, her knees cracking painfully against the cold, dark stone. But the crushing pressure disappeared from her neck.

She’d made it out of the sunlight.

Her shadow was gone and she was safe. For now.

Unsteadily, she got to her feet, stumbling over the hem of her skirt. As her breaths ripped through her battered throat, she realized that the only ringing she heard was in her own ears.

The tournament was over? Could that be?

Curiosity beat at her, forcing Esme closer to the window in spite of the patter of her heart. She gripped the edge of the nearest tapestry, ready to duck behind it if needed, and peered down. The two knights were still at the far edge of the field, but the larger one was on his hands and knees, his sword abandoned in the grass.

A cheer rose from the crowd, startling a few birds that rose in unison and flapped off into the distance. The smaller knight removed his helmet, revealing waves of auburn hair that nearly brushed his shoulders. From the horizon, a bank of clouds swept in, bringing with them the sort of rumble that promised a sudden storm. As the sunlight faded, Esme dared step directly in front of the window.

The knight turned and waved his helmet, acknowledging the crowd. Esme caught sight of his profile. A square jaw framed a smile that gleamed almost as brightly as his sword. Esme’s heart galloped yet more unevenly. He was so handsome. It was as though his face had been shaped to satisfy the particular hunger of her gaze.

He started to step toward his opponent, but a trumpet sounded at the base of the tower, reminding the knight that he hadn’t acknowledged her, and the knight stopped.

Slowly, he turned and faced the tower where she stood. His eyes scaled the walls and his smile faded as he stared at Esme. She didn’t dare breathe. Behind him, the clouds roiled in the sky like a dark blessing.

She stood there, protected by nothing but the clouds. The knight dipped his head to her, and she wondered if his acknowledgment was anything more than a nearly forgotten politeness.

But then he straightened. And the look he gave her glowed so brightly that, for a moment, she couldn’t see anything else. Unbidden by custom, he dropped to one knee. The crowd murmured loudly enough for Esme to hear it. Their surprise mirrored her own.

Dizzy with the lingering effects of her own battle and the sweetness of this unexpected attention, Esme pulled out the wide blue ribbon that twined through the gold net that held her hair. She let one end flutter through the window, accepting his tribute. She was grateful that he couldn’t see that it wasn’t the breeze, but rather her trembling that shook the length of satin in her hand.

The crowd began to rustle and point, relishing a rare glimpse of the girl who terrified and entranced them at the same time. The gasp that came from behind Esme startled her so badly that she spun away from the window, half expecting to see her shadow reaching for her again.

“What are you doing?” Margaret came rushing in with her arms full of fresh linen sheets.

“Just—they were announcing the winner, and the clouds had come. I was only at the window for a moment, I swear.” Esme started to cross the room, intending to pick up her needlework and stitch tiny red flowers until the blood quit galloping through her veins.

Margaret caught her by the sleeve. “A moment at a cloudy window doesn’t leave marks like that on your neck.” Her usually ruddy cheeks were nearly as pale as Esme’s snow-white skin. “You got shadowed.”

Though Margaret was supposed to be her lady’s maid, she often seemed to Esme more like a jailer who was good with hairpins and small buttons.

With a sigh, Esme nodded. There was no use trying to pretend she hadn’t been attacked. In a few hours, the marks on her neck would darken into ugly purple bruises that would be impossible to hide. “You’re going to tell my father, aren’t you?”

“I don’t see how I can avoid it. Have you seen your neck?”

Esme walked over to the polished brass mirror. She’d expected to see red marks. Maybe the violet beginnings of a bruise. But the finger marks striped across her neck were black as tar.

Esme tried to hide her grimace. “You’ll be in as much trouble as I will if you tell him. You were supposed to stay with me, remember?” She didn’t want to put Margaret in a bad spot, but the last time she’d been shadowed, her father had ordered her to be removed to one of the interior rooms of the tower. A room with no windows at all. It had taken her half a year’s begging to convince him to let her back into her room. She couldn’t bear that again.

As it was, she hadn’t been out of the tower since her shadow had attacked her last. Not that she’d been out more than a scant handful of times before that—and always in the dark of the moon—but after that last incident, the tower felt less like a protection and more like a prison.

Margaret bit her lip. “Perhaps a wimple, instead of the gold net. If we wrapped it around your neck and pinned it . . . ?”

“We could leave my hair down,” Esme suggested.

Margaret sighed. “We’ll do both, I expect. I’ll go see Old Anne. She may have something to lessen the marking.”

The idea of Margaret walking through the feasting and revelry, walking so close to the knight—her knight—was more than Esme could bear. She tugged at Margaret’s sleeves.

“Please,” she begged, not caring that it was unbecoming, “wait until after dark. Let me go with you. Surely no one will notice one more body in the crowd on a night like tonight. I’ll take my dinner in my room, say I have a headache. No one will know. It will be better if Anne can see the bruises for herself, anyway.” The last was a lie. She neither knew nor cared whether Anne could serve her better after seeing the bruises.

She just wanted one taste of the revelry below. One sip.

It wasn’t an outrageous request. Of the few times she’d been out of the tower, most of those had been to see Old Anne about her shadowy curse.

“That is an outrageous request!” Margaret announced, her hand flying to her chest. “Anyone could recognize you. You could stumble into firelight or lamplight. Your father would have my head.”

“Surely I could be well disguised,” Esme argued. “And I’m not careless enough to wander close to a fire.”

“The only thing we’ll be disguising are those bruises on your neck. I will go see Old Anne. You will stay in your room until I get back. Now let me go get that wimple. You’re lucky I don’t tell your father what happened. Risking your life, just to watch a silly tournament.” She clucked, putting down the sheets. Margaret walked through the archway into the adjoining dressing room and bent to rummage through the cupboard.

Esme turned back to the window, watching as the standards snapped and sagged beneath the howling storm.

“How much is this sort of life worth, anyway?”

The wind snatched her whispered words and swept them out the window. Behind her, oblivious, Margaret began to hum as she readied Esme’s head covering.

After a lonely dinner, Esme lay across her bed, watching through the far window as the lingering clouds turned a crimson-tinged pink with the setting sun. The sounds of feasting—raucous laughter and ragged bits of music—rolled across the field.

The tightly pinned wimple chafed the fresh bruises on Esme’s skin. But for those marks—but for the curse of her shadow—she could have at least been downstairs with her family. It would have been a more restrained gathering, of course. The thought of it didn’t make her blood bubble the way the thought of skirting around the bonfires in the field did, but anything would be better than lying alone in her room, as far as she could get from the lamplight, embroidering flowers in the dark.

Margaret had disappeared shortly after dinner, looking at Esme severely as she went, making her promise to be good. If anyone could help, it would be Anne. With all her salves and poultices, her uncanny ability to see a person’s problems in the dregs of their tea—she was better than any of the doctors. It was the only reason no one outright said the word witch around her. They’d all needed her in one way or another.

Esme tugged at her wimple. If Margaret hurried, if Anne was in a quick and giving mood, she might even be rid of the bruises by tomorrow. There would be a second feast. A second celebratory dinner. It wouldn’t be as much, but at least she wouldn’t miss everything.

She was so tired of missing everything.

The stars began winking in the purple sky, like eyes struggling to open after a long night’s sleep. When no more light stained the floor beneath her window, Esme went to watch the celebration. The king had planned the tournament for a moonless night, which meant she could watch the revelers, at least. Even if her father would never allow her outside to join them.

Just because it was night, that didn’t mean she was safe. There were a thousand ways to cast a shadow in the dark. Her father looked sad when he reminded her of the dangers, but not sad enough to relent.

From her tower vantage point, she could see the whole field. Fire dotted the grass. She watched the little gems of torches and lamps bobble in between the bonfires. Closing her eyes, she breathed as deeply as her bodice would allow.

Mostly, the cool, storm-washed air was all that she could smell. But faintly, just underneath it, was the scent of wood smoke and the mouthwatering tang of meat being roasted on a spit somewhere. Her stomach rumbled, complaining about the thin soup and airy bread that she’d eaten. It was a delicate dinner that had been sent up for her delicate constitution, but what she really wanted was a flagon of the small beer that filled the barrels, and a plate of the fire-blackened boar meat.

She sighed and tapped her foot in time to the music, watching as the dancers turned and bowed and spun, smiling in the firelight. While her feet beat out a jig on the floor, she pushed her head as far out the narrow window as she could, relishing every finger’s width closer she could get to the beating heart of the celebration.

Something below her caught her eye—a sudden stillness in the seething motion of the party.

Esme’s feet ceased their tapping and her hands curled around the stone of the sill. The bonfire behind the knight turned his auburn hair into a flame all its own. Even without his armor, she recognized him. Even in the dark, she knew the twin lights of his sword and his smile.

The knight bowed to her, then put a hand on his chest. Esme hung from the windowsill, her toes barely touching the floor beneath her, suspended like a fly in amber. She wasn’t allowed to go down there. She was unable to go down there. But she couldn’t bring herself to turn away from him, either.

Margaret appeared next to her.

With a squeak, Esme let go of the windowsill and dropped to the floor.

“Hanging from the windowsill?” Margaret started. “Of all the—”

“Never mind that,” Esme interrupted. “What about Anne?”

Margaret held up her empty hands. “She said you must come to her. That she’d read the tea leaves and they said, this time, she cannot treat your injuries without seeing them for herself. She said she would not cross the wisdom of the leaves.” Her voice was quiet, but frustration poisoned her speech.

The jolt that went through Esme shook her so badly that she half leapt, half tumbled away from the window. She was leaving. She would go out of the tower and into the revel below. Her palms dampened at the thought, but her heart raced at the thought of seeing the knight, of tasting the dark air.

“When do we leave?”

Margaret shook her head. “We are not leaving. We will simply have to do without Anne. You will stay here and hope the wimple is enough. It is too dangerous. There are too many lights in the field.”

“Margaret, look.” Esme pulled the wimple aside, giving her maid full view of the horrible bruises on her neck.

Margaret bit her lip. Esme pounced.

“My father will want to see me tomorrow. If he becomes suspicious—if he notices the bruising—I don’t know how I’ll explain it. Please, Margaret. Taking this risk may be the only way to protect us both.” Though she was creating arguments meant to convince her maid, the truth in her words made her shudder.

Margaret rubbed her forehead. “I can’t think. . . .”

Esme stepped forward. “Anne knows more about what has happened to me than anyone else. It was her own daughter who wrought this curse. She knows the danger involved with leaving the tower. We’ve always trusted her before. I am inclined to trust her now. With or without you, I am going to see Anne.”

Margaret nodded miserably. “I’ll get you my spare cloak.”

Esme turned back to the window. Her terror and excitement were so great that the night itself seemed to quiver. The fire-haired knight was gone, and she was surprised at the disappointment that lurched through her. Had she really been so hopeful of meeting him? She really should stop wishing for impossible things.

She was about to venture out of her tower for the first time in more than a year. After overcoming that impossibility, meeting a knight seemed trifling.

Margaret returned with her arms full of gray-dyed wool. While Esme ignored her heart, chattering in her chest like a set of teeth, Margaret draped the cloak around her and fastened it at the neck. Between the concealing wimple and the hood, she was well disguised.

“See? I might as well be invisible!” she crowed.

“You may be hidden, but you’re not protected,” Margaret warned. “We still have to get past the crowd, which won’t be easy.”

The truth in Margaret’s words stole part of Esme’s glee. Her tongue was too thick and pasty in her mouth to speak, so Esme nodded, but she wasn’t sure Margaret could see the movement beneath the hood of the cloak.

“It isn’t too late to change your mind,” Margaret whispered.

The words unglued Esme’s tongue. “Don’t be silly.” She hoped her bluffed confidence wasn’t transparent. With a firm step, she strode toward her chamber door, telling herself that it was no different from going down to the dining hall for dinner. “Just—you go ahead and make sure there aren’t torches lit. As long as there’s no direct light, I’ll be safe.”

With her lip caught between her teeth, Margaret turned and scurried into the hall.

“No torches,” she called softly.

Esme breathed a sigh of relief and followed the scurrying of Margaret’s little mouse footsteps. There was a small door off to one side of the hall at the bottom of the stairs. A door that led outside.

“Is anyone there?” she whispered.

“It’s likely to be guarded,” Margaret whispered back. “There may be torches as well. Or lanterns. If we’re lucky, it will be lanterns.”

Margaret stepped around Esme and pushed open the door. The night was so close that Esme found herself rooted to the floor, temporarily more plant than person. After all, she did not move from her assigned place, the way the rest of the world did. But she wanted to. She wanted to.

The desire to be out was strong enough to unstick her feet and propel her forward, until she had nearly smacked into Margaret’s back.

“Two ladies headed alone into that madness?” The guard’s voice was thick with drinking, his words slumping against one another so that Esme could barely understand him. No one had ever spoken to her like this before, and it took her a moment to realize that—to him—she appeared to be nothing more than a well-hooded lady’s maid. A lamp dangled limply from the guard’s fingers, and Esme shied away from it. “You two need a chaperone, mebbe?”

“There’s plenty of eyes out there without adding yours,” Margaret answered in a flippant voice that Esme had never heard her use before. “Now let us pass.”

“Only if you save me a dance,” the guard wheedled.

“If your legs will still hold you up, it would be my pleasure,” Margaret answered. She swept past him, reaching back to grab a fold of Esme’s cloak and towing her along in her wake. Esme let herself be pulled forward, though she swung a wide berth around the flickering puddle of lamplight.

Once the black night air had settled around her, Esme had to resist the urge to laugh. Her terror had left with the lamplight, and all she saw spread out in front of her was the endless expanse of darkness beyond the fires in the field. It had been too long since she had wrapped her fingers around this much freedom. Out here, she could walk instead of pace—she could run, even.

At least until the sun came up.

Ahead of her, Margaret froze, swearing an oath the likes of which Esme had never heard pass her lips.

“What?” Esme spun around, certain that she’d wandered into some sort of light. She waited for the clawing hands of her shadow to latch themselves onto her neck—or worse. There were so many weapons nearby. The grass was littered with them and there was barely an arm or leg visible that didn’t have some sort of blade strapped to it.

But the darkness was total. The shadow didn’t come.

“Margaret!” A man, made somehow handsomer by the scar crossing his forehead, rushed forward and grabbed Margaret’s arm. Esme ducked low into her cloak, and Margaret stepped away from her, putting enough distance between them that Esme at least had a hope of staying hidden.

“I’ve been waiting for you all night!” Margaret’s suitor exclaimed—for it was obvious by the way his hand lingered at her waist that he was more than a passing acquaintance.

“I can’t stay,” Margaret said. “I’m with my . . . cousin. Rosalie.”

Esme resisted the urge to sigh. She had never seen such a terrible liar.

“She’ll be fine for a moment. Come on—one turn around the fire. You promised,” he said, cheerfully dragging Margaret away by the arm.

Esme could see Margaret’s face, terrified and confused, mirroring Esme’s own feelings exactly. There was danger in being alone and danger in allowing Margaret’s beau close enough to discover who she was. Esme shivered as the urge to run after Margaret crawled across her skin. Before she could take so much as a single calming breath, she felt a hand against her shoulder.

“Pardon me, miss—”

She glanced over her shoulder at the voice and found herself standing a single step from the knight. Her knight.

“Y-yes?” she stammered. She knew there was only a moment before Margaret pulled herself from her sweetheart’s grasp and came flying back to fetch her.

His eyes widened. “Is it you?” he whispered.

Panicked, Esme tugged the hood farther around her face, but it was too late. He had seen. He knew.

“It is you.”

“Please. Please don’t say anything.”

“I won’t. I swear it.” He was a knight—his oath was binding. Esme tingled with relief.

“I thought you couldn’t leave the tower,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“I can—I mean, I don’t. I haven’t in so long, but it’s—I’m . . .” Her stammering infuriated her. She sounded like a madwoman.

“You’re cursed,” he whispered. “That’s what they say, at least.”

She nodded.

“So it’s true?” He shut his eyes. She could see him chastising himself. “I’m sorry to be so bold. Your companion looked reluctant to leave you.”

“She was. I only have a moment. And yes, the rumors are true.” Esme’s voice came back to her, the words in her mouth as steady as the ground they stood on.

“They say you’ll burn in the light, like one of the undead.”

“If I were a revenant, wouldn’t you be in terrible danger right now?” The frustration in her voice might have been impertinent, but she couldn’t stop herself. Yes, she was cursed, but she was not evil. She didn’t drink blood. She wasn’t undead.

The corners of his mouth twitched. “I suppose I would. But for one thing, I don’t believe a revenant would be so beautiful. And for another, I have a fairly remarkable sword.” He tapped the hilt at his side.

“Remarkable enough to kill a revenant?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

His answering smile was blinding. It was brighter than sunlight, but she could stand beneath it without fear. Something bloomed in her chest, so sudden and huge in the dark cage of her ribs that she thought she would burst.

“It has been in my family for many generations. Some say it was goblin-made. Another story says it sprang up in the middle of a faerie ring.” He shrugged.

“Which do you believe?” she teased him.

His eyes blazed. “I don’t need to believe either of them. The right weapon in the right hands is its own kind of magic,” he said.

Unbidden, a vision of the hands that had cursed her awoke in her memory. “I know that to be true,” she whispered. “And yet I do not even know your name.”

His face softened. “Rylan Sedgewick.” He offered a small bow. “And yours?”

“Surely you must know my name, Sir Rylan? Isn’t it dragged out along with the rumors?”

“I would rather hear it from your own lips,” he said.

“I am Esme. My father is the Duke of Lanford.” She dipped her head, acknowledging his bow.

“I am better pleased than you know to make your acquaintance. And while I am being overly bold—what is it that makes those beautiful gray eyes of yours look so sad?”

“My own shadow,” she whispered. “It hunts me.”

Instead of being starred with disbelief or narrowing in horror, Rylan’s eyes glittered with a warrior’s hunger.

“Have you not found a way to make the hunter into the hunted?” he asked.

Esme shrugged. “When I am out of direct light, my shadow is powerless. I must avoid the sunlight. Moonlight. Fire. Then I am safe.”

“But it still imprisons you,” he protested. “A life without light is nothing but an enormous shackle.”

“Indeed it is,” she agreed. “But it’s the best that can be done. Fire doesn’t burn a shadow. Axes pass through it. I am the only one who can touch it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Esme saw Margaret hurrying toward them.

“My maid is coming,” she said simply.

Rylan’s face fell. “I must see you again. Please.”

“It’s impossible. I can’t leave the tower,” Esme said, the words crushing her with the weight of their finality. “My father doesn’t allow visitors.”

“You left the tower this evening,” he countered.

“It was a matter of utmost importance,” she said.

“So is this,” he assured her, and though there was jest in his voice, his eyes burned with a coal of truth that made her breath hot in her lungs.

Margaret was getting closer, her step quickening when she saw Esme was speaking to Rylan.

“I will wait,” he assured her. “Every night, no matter how many it takes. I will be out here.”

“I can’t let you do that. Not when I have nothing to offer you.” The words broke in her mouth, their new-made edges so sharp she swore her tongue was cut.

“Give me a token to remember you by, then,” he bade her.

Esme swept her hands across the cloak—the pockets were empty. She had no handkerchief, she wore no brooch. Her panicked fumbling sent a wayward lock of hair tumbling out of the wimple that bound her neck.

She shoved it back and then froze as her hands brushed the ribbon that held the rest of her hair. The same ribbon she’d waved to acknowledge his victory.

How appropriate.

Hurrying, she yanked the ribbon free, and the length of blue satin, woven thickly with silver threads, slipped from beneath her wimple.

Rylan held out his hand and she pooled the ribbon into it. He curled his fingers over it as gently as if she’d laid a flower in his palm.

Esme turned, expecting to find Margaret at her back. Instead, she was startled to see her maid hurtling past them. Esme spun again, nearly as dizzy as the dancers. Her eyes found the head of untamed gray hair even before she spotted Margaret.

They didn’t need to go to Anne after all.

Anne had come to them.

With her walking stick aiding her limping gait, she stomped to Esme and Rylan, who stood transfixed. Margaret raced over, breathless and unkempt.

“You’ve gotten yourself out of the tower. Good girl.” Anne’s voice creaked and cracked and she spoke—as usual—without preamble or politesse.

“I thought you commanded me to come.”

Anne cackled, low and smoky. “I did. The dregs in my teacup said you were due for an escape. I suppose Margaret didn’t mention that to you.”

She had not. Esme looked at Margaret, who had set her jaw so tightly that her chin jutted. She turned her attention back to Anne.

“This is not exactly an escape, as you well know. A change of scenery, perhaps, but unless you come bearing a way to break this curse . . .” Esme let the unsaid end of her sentence hang in the air.

Anne sagged beneath the weight of it. “You know I cannot do that. When they killed my daughter, they took away the only person who could undo the hex.”

Rylan jumped, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. “Your daughter was the one who cursed the Lady Esme?”

“Aye. Her own baby sickened and died on the day of Esme’s christening. Blind with grief, my daughter twisted a bit of magic that should never have been done. She gave her baby Esme’s name and then stole Esme’s shadow. She thought if she bound her own baby’s spirit into Esme’s shadow, it would slip into Esme’s body from the shadow, becoming flesh again.”

Margaret stepped forward, her eyes narrowing at Rylan’s obvious interest. “It didn’t work that way. Which is why Esme must stay in the dark; why she is not . . . available, as other young ladies are.”

Rylan looked unswayed by her attempt to put him off. “So the spirit—Lady Esme’s shadow—why does it not have a body of its own? One that would allow it to walk in the light, as well as in the dark?”

“It could,” Esme answered. “If it made space for itself first. If I am killed, and my spirit left my body, there would be room for it to come in.”

“Which is why you must stay out of the light,” Anne said sadly. “If Lady Esme is exposed to direct light from the sun, the moon, or a fire, it kindles her shadow.”

Esme’s palms pricked with nerves when she looked over at Rylan, certain she would see him either backing away in horror or else politely fighting the urge to do so. As she read the expression on his face, she was stunned. Deep lines had appeared at the sides of his mouth as his full lips pursed in thought. His eyes were lit with a warrior’s delight in the challenge of strategy.

“If you would pardon my abruptness,” he began, and Margaret snorted.

Anne brought the end of her walking stick down on Margaret’s foot hard enough to make her yelp.

“My bones are telling me to be quiet and listen,” Anne growled at her. “They just told you the same thing.” She turned her withered face back to Rylan. “Go on.”

Ignoring Margaret’s muttered complaints, Rylan spoke, his words measured and careful.

“I see how staying out of the light is a defense—a necessary defense—but I do not think it much of a solution. It seems to me that if a shadow is made of darkness, then the way to battle it may be with light.”

“That is the most painful bit of the curse,” Anne agreed. “I hear the truth in your words. But light also allows the shadow to separate itself from the darkness at large. There is no weapon that can be used against it. The time it would take to discover one would be more than enough for Esme’s shadow to take her life. Speaking of which—”

Anne reached into the folds of her robe and pulled out a small earthenware jar. “Margaret told me about your neck. Rub this on it, three times a day, and take plenty of eggs with your meals. It will help.”

Esme took the jar with a grateful nod. “Margaret has your payment.”

Margaret handed the coin over grudgingly, with a pointed glance at her injured foot. Anne grinned, her smile more holes than teeth. “Enough for some food and something to drink. I think I may stay awhile. It has been so long since there was anything for me to celebrate. . . . Sir . . . ?”

“Rylan of Sedgewick.” He bowed.

“Sir Rylan, then. Will you walk an old woman to the fire?”

Rylan glanced at Esme. His eyes were forlorn. She answered him with a determined stare.

Things would not end here. Not like this. She’d had a sip of the possible and she wasn’t about to hand the glass back now.

“I will watch for you,” he said.

“I hope so,” she said.

“Oi!” The guard who had accosted them at the door let out a shout that cut through the din of the celebration as he lurched toward them, grabbing a torch that had been jammed into the ground. “Are ye ready to give me that dance?”

Margaret made a noise that was caught between a gasp and a retch.

Esme froze. She couldn’t run past the guard and get back to the safety of her tower. Behind her, the celebration raged, with torches and bonfires pockmarking the field. She was trapped.

“Douse that torch! At once!” Margaret commanded.

It did no good.

The guard was so drunk he couldn’t halt his own momentum. He swayed so close to Esme that she was cuffed tight in the circle of torchlight. Before she could shut her eyes against the glare, Esme felt a set of hands jerk her head back and rip off the cloak hood and wimple that hid her bruised neck. She saw nothing but stars—she felt nothing but the night air on the exposed skin of her throat.

Margaret screamed. She grabbed Esme’s arm and dragged her out of the light. Rylan wrapped his arms around the half-mast guard and tossed him back toward the castle.

But it was too late.

The commotion had attracted the crowd’s attention, and before Esme’s feet had moved, they were surrounded by a circle of people, each of them bearing some sort of light.

Esme’s shadow leapt back into existence, solid as an anvil and just as black. It wrapped an arm around her neck, and her already tender windpipe folded like a bellows.

The gasping, shouting ring of spectators spread and deepened. In some places, it was nearly a solid wall of torch fire and lamplight. There was no way out. No way through.

A haze of sparkles appeared as Esme tried to draw breath and failed. Through the glitter, she saw Rylan draw his sword. The blade reflected the flames that surrounded them. Instead of gleaming metal, a column of fire leapt from the golden hilt. Hope rose in Esme. Maybe the light in his sword was enough to slay the shadow and break the curse.

Rylan slashed at the shadow, but the blade passed right through. The hope that had flared in her so suddenly dimmed, and her vision narrowed as death crept into her.

Words from the night danced through her head. Something Rylan had said . . . something besides fighting darkness with light . . . her knees buckled beneath her and Esme tumbled to the ground. Her shadow fell with her, loosening its hold on her neck just long enough for Esme to draw a single, burning breath.

The sweet heat of the air swept through her, and she remembered the thought she’d been seeking.

The right weapon in the right hands has its own kind of magic.

She looked up at Rylan, who stood with his sword pointed at the pressing crowd as he shouted at them to get back.

“Sir Rylan!” Esme croaked as the shadow’s arm found its favored place against the soft flesh of her neck. In spite of the breathlessness of her voice, he heard her.

He spun away from the crowd, facing Esme with a look of powerless horror.

She could no longer speak, nor could she breathe. She held out a hand, staring hard at his sword.

If it was foolishness, so be it, but one way or another, the curse would be broken in the next moments.

Without hesitating, Rylan turned the point of the sword toward himself, offering Esme the hilt. With her arms weakened, the weapon was so heavy that she could barely lift it. The point dragged along the ground and, as the blade drew level with her eyes, Esme could see the shadow reflected in it, its features growing more distinct as her own life waned.

With the last of her strength, Esme lifted the sword’s hilt above her head, moving the blade so that it would swing behind her like a pendulum. A susurration swept across her hearing, like a flock of startled birds taking flight. The sword slipped from Esme’s grip and thudded to the ground.

A cloak of icy blackness settled over her, and as her vision waned, Esme glanced up at the distant stars and begged forgiveness as the last of the world slid from her view.

The darkness that followed was pure and limitless.

Vaguely, she heard Anne’s voice. “Wake up, child.”

Wake up?

Her throat tore and then tore again, as her breath hissed in and out. Esme’s eyes fluttered open and she mewled in surprise at the bedclothes that scratched against her skin.

She was back inside the tower.

Anne and Margaret huddled over her.

“Is it—is she?” Margaret’s breath hitched so badly that she couldn’t finish her questions.

Anne peered into Esme’s eyes. Still too weak and stunned to move, Esme stared back. Anne glanced at Margaret.

“Lift her shoulders a bit and bring that torch just a bit closer. Carefully, now. Sir Rylan, be at the ready.”

Esme winced as Margaret’s arm slid beneath her, propping her up. Anne bent, studying the sheets beneath Esme, but Esme’s attention was fixed elsewhere. Near the foot of the bed knelt Rylan, a mixture of pride and surprise written on his face. His sword was still unsheathed and his hand wrapped around the shimmering hilt.

Something was different. The blade—the shining, fiery blade was dull as the stone of the tower walls and just as dark.

“It’s gone,” Anne announced. “Look.” She pointed beneath Esme, to the spot where the torchlight should have cast her shadow. “The torchlight casts my shadow. Sir Rylan has one. You do, too,” she said to Margaret. “But Esme’s is gone.”

Margaret gasped.

The news shook her and Esme reached out her hands, looking for something—anything—solid to hold on to. Rylan sheathed his sword in an instant and moved to Esme’s side, scooping her weakened body into his arms. Margaret gasped, but Esme couldn’t imagine that this scandal would outshine the breaking of her curse. Moreover, she didn’t want him to put her down. The feel of his hands pressing against her through her clothes was delicious, even in her fragile state. No man had ever held her like this. Surreptitiously, as though he were adjusting her in his arms, he laid his cheek against her forehead, and his bright auburn hair swept against her skin, making her shiver gladly.

Margaret stepped closer, bringing the dancing light of the torch with her. Instinctively, Esme coiled, but then the sweetness of the glow against her skin reminded her that she had nothing to fear. She felt herself bubbling up—stretching and strengthening with the relief of finally, finally being illuminated.

“I’ll go get the duke and bring him in to her.” Margaret left, taking the torch with her. Without it, the feeble glow of the lamp near the door was the only light left in the room.

Esme was still cradled in Rylan’s arms. Everything looked different. The stone walls looked softer, the tapestries more alive. She stretched out a trembling hand and caressed them, in love with everything, enamored of the very air.

Anne knelt next to Rylan, who laid Esme down gently.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked.

Rylan stood and looked down at Esme, his shoulder brushing the bedpost. In the dim corner, surrounded by the dark bedclothes, panic clawed at Esme.

“Please bring a torch. Or a candle. Anything,” Esme rasped. “I can’t bear the darkness another second.”

“Of course. At once.” Rylan ducked into Margaret’s quarters and returned with a candelabra that bore enough lit candles to make Esme’s panic retreat.

Anne squinted at her. “So the curse is ended?” She handed Esme a cup of wine, which Esme sipped gratefully, though it burned her wounded throat.

“Yes. I mean, it must be. I’m here. There is light around me and on me and no one is attacking me.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s been so many years, locked in that prison. I never thought I would be free of it. I thought the darkness and sadness—dear God, the unbearable loneliness—I thought that was sure to be my destiny.”

“But now it is not. And I am here to help you take your rightful place in the light,” Rylan said, bending his knee.

“I am so grateful to you, Sir Rylan. And I am sorry to have seen your sword in such a damaged state. Though I must admit, I would be grateful not to have it used against me again.”

“Against you?” The question dropped from his lips.

Anne’s grip on her hand tightened.

“Indeed. If that monster’s soul hadn’t leapt from her the moment before she swung, I fear the outcome might have been different.” She smiled up at Rylan. “I did think, if it was to be my end, that I would be happy to have my last vision be something filled with so much light. Dying in that brightness would have been better than being trapped endlessly in the dark.”

Anne let out a strangled sound.

With great effort, Esme brought Anne’s hand up to her face and rubbed her cheek against it, gently. “Oh, Grandmother. I thought I would never get to see you—to speak with you. I could hear them talking about my mother, sometimes, while I was in the dark. I never understood why she forced me into that black prison. It was worse than death. I fought so hard to come back into the light. Back to you.”

Rylan gripped the bedpost. “You are . . . you are the shadow?”

Esme blinked. “I am myself. The shadow was my prison.” She turned and smiled at them both, radiant. “And finally, I have escaped.”