Prince of Glass & Midnight

by Linsey Miller

To everyone wishing for a second chance. —L. M.

My father says we cannot live our lives afraid to love, and I think in a few months when things are less foggy—I always felt like sadness was a thick fog that looked too dreary to ever go away but eventually did—you will agree with me.

That’s why I like the memorial: you can visit or avoid it depending on how you’re feeling. The soldier watches over the cemetery like a guardian of the memories we can’t quite bear.

Your eyes always reminded me of a Fresne sky in spring.

My father is dead. It was sudden. I cannot write. There are no words. Do not come. I cannot stand to see anyone yet.

My schooling is not more important than you, and your father was as good as family. I would gladly take a leave of absence.

He hadn’t met anyone he got along with like…well, it didn’t matter. He had no misconceptions about their relationship, or lack thereof, and he specifically didn’t think of her when meeting new people.

This was given to me as a reminder of the wish I made. Magic, like our roles as royalty, is powerful, and we alone are responsible for how we use that power.

“On the contrary, I do listen to everything you say.” August let his face go and sat back in his chair, eating the last few bites of his pastry. “Whether or not it stays in my mind is an entirely different matter.”

But August was sure if he thought too long about Fresne, of his childhood friend who had left a hole in his heart, and the prospect of seeing her, he might not smile ever again.

THE FRESNE sky was still the exact same shade of bright blue as Ella’s eyes, but it lacked the shock he imagined her glare would contain.

Sometimes, melting a layer of ice was easier with cool water, not boiling.

“My stepsisters will help out by marrying upstanding young gentlemen. Or the prince. Every girl dreams of marrying into royalty, I think.” He cringed at the mention of the prince, and she elbowed him. “Rude,” she said, but she was grinning. “You don’t even know them.” “Do you dream of marrying the prince?” he asked, and instantly regretted it. What if she hated him? Worse, what if she didn’t?

“Oh, yes. Fairy tales, dreams, wishes—that’s the point of them all, isn’t it?” she asked, sighing. She touched his arm. “They give us hope that one day all of our problems will be solved and our hard work will have been worth it.”

“Just Ella?” He laughed, because the statement was too ridiculous not to balk at. “You’ve never been just anyone.”

“I didn’t know how to write you again and say hello without simply dumping all my problems at your feet,” she whispered. “You never did anything wrong. Everything was wrong. I didn’t feel like I could talk to anyone about anything.” “I wouldn’t have minded.”

“That’s three things,” August pointed out. “Though I won’t fault you for wanting more than bread.” “Wouldn’t that be lovely? All the bread I can eat, and it’s always perfectly baked, free of mold, and never stale.” Why in the world would Ella ever be worried about moldy bread? She had a whole farm on her family’s property. “You wish for that, and I’ll wish for cheese,” he said. “Then we’ll both be perfectly happy.” “Oh, to be happy,” Martin said, and sighed. “I wonder what that’s like?” “No, you don’t. You were born scowling,”

She eyed it. “That’s for Anastasia’s face.” “If you don’t eat it, it will be on your face,” he said, and tapped her nose with it. Ella sighed. Slowly, she opened her mouth and let him place the strawberry on her tongue, then closed her lips around it. Her eyes fluttered shut. August stilled.

“The jam!” He pointed to the pot she had removed from the heat a little while before. “You never did tell me the secret.” “Oh, yes!” She grabbed a spoon and a mouthful of the jam. “It’s not set yet, but trust me, it will. What you’re tasting for is brightness. A bit of lemon juice cuts the sweetness, but you have to add it early or the jam might not set correctly.” Ella approached him slowly, cheeks freshly pinkened from the heat of the stove, and held the spoon up to his mouth. August swallowed and carefully ate the jam. Never before had he been so aware of how easy it was to get food on his face. He couldn’t even feel his face, and…

“Really?” She beamed, smiling so widely her eyes briefly closed, and spun. “Perfect!” Her joy made his breath catch in his chest.

Ella laughed. “I keep hoping he’ll age into dignity and grace, but that may be asking for too much.” “He loses his balance, and you lose your hope,” said August. “So poetic.”

“It’s never really gone, is it? We hope and hope and no matter how hard the world tries, it doesn’t ever really take all of it from us.”

“Is it better not remembering how much it hurt to lose him the first time?” Monsieur Picard scoffed, head tilting to the side. “Different kinds of love breed different kinds of grief, none of them good or easier to handle than another.”

still woke on her birthday and wandered to her quarters with a bouquet of roses the same deep red of her hair and pink of her blush;

If romantic love was involved in the memory loss, then this was a bad time to nurture such affections, but he didn’t want to crush Martin’s heart. The older boy spent so much time taking care of work, August, and his siblings that he rarely focused on himself.

Madame Monet’s necklace, Blaise’s and Madame Bardin’s rings, Monsieur Allard’s forget-me-nots, and Henry’s cane—Monsieur Picard had also noted some odds and ends from Nathalie’s shop.

“Wishes channel magic into action, but if there’s leftover magic that didn’t get used by the wish, then it can leach? Yes, that’s it! The leftovers leach into what’s around when the wish is made! That leftover magic is much easier to manipulate.” “So you think the memory loss could be caused by excess magic that’s leached into Fresne?” Martin asked slowly. “Why memory loss specifically, though?” August shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. With this new information, magically tainted places or items makes sense. Maybe a wish was granted here ages ago, and that’s why the letter didn’t mention it.”

“Like if your father was granted a wish and your mother was next to him, all the magic the fairy summons isn’t used up, so some might leach into the buckle on his belt or her locket,” August said. Her locket…it was perfect for that. The rings, too, and the flowers Monsieur Allard had used were made of glass. Henry’s cane was wood, but the wolf-head grip was metal. The gloves didn’t make sense, though. They were leather. Still, though, this was at least something they could pursue, even if it proved to be a dead end. Nathalie might have sold or reworked a leached object accidentally and spread the magic around.

“The girl doesn’t really talk to anyone in town so far as I can tell, and to be honest, for the longest time I thought she was Drizella and Anastasia’s older sister.”

smelling of lye and lavender.

Ella was clever and kind, and wistfulness pinched his heart.

“I know you think I’m naive, but hoping and seeing the best in people doesn’t make me naive. Hope is not the opposite of reality.”

Ella’s lashes tickled his cheek. She was closer than she’d been in ages, so close he could make out the little indent of her teeth in her bottom lip. Ella had always been beautiful, but up close she was breathtaking. He could make out the little freckles on her nose and the curl stuck to her cheek. He wanted to brush it aside. He was still holding her wrists, the thin skin warming beneath his own, and she laid her forehead against his shoulder. The odd fluttering in his stomach spread to his heart and stole the air from his lungs. Her breath ruffled his shirt.

She turned her head. He didn’t want to let go of her. He wanted to stay like this. He wanted to help her up. He wanted, more than anything, not to leave her

“Not loving you is too difficult to do,” he whispered, and hesitated. She opened her mouth to speak, her eyes bright with unshed tears as she stared up at him, and he shook his head.

<3

“Ella is too nice for them,” August whispered to Martin. “She’d give her last pea to a mouse. She’s far too nice for her own good.” “Like you.” Martin shrugged. “What good is a single pea to a person? It’s much more important and useful to the mouse.”

Partners—that was what they had been as children when sneaking burned loaves from Monsieur Picard’s bakery or eavesdropping on their parents’ plans for their birthdays. He smiled at her, the image of them as children racing through his mind. She didn’t grin, but she didn’t scowl either. Was she remembering the same antics he was? “Partners in crime,” he said, and she did smile slightly at that.

“That’s good,” said August, entranced by how quickly and perfectly her fingers moved. “What are you going to do?” Ella asked. “You’re the only problem left I can think of.” “Tell me what you really think of me, Ella,” he said, and her answering smile warmed his heart.

“How did you see it? Lord Moreau’s butler took it from me.” She popped the other tart into her mouth, closed her eyes, and sighed. “I love blue plums.” In that moment, August would have bought her every blue plum in the world. “You should have eaten the other one, too,” he said, cheeks flushing. Ella cracked open one eye and pursed her lips, whispering, “I ate five.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, close enough to touch yet still so far. His chest went cold.

“I fear I’m a retired playwright,” he said, and brought her hand to his mouth. “I still have all of your letters and those mittens.” It wasn’t a kiss—her skin never touched his lips—but it was a promise. She stumbled and nodded. He placed her hand back at her side.

“Maybe the stealing is what did this,” he muttered. “Maybe the memory loss is a punishment for stealing from the memorial or something.”

“Enjoy the fruits of your labors for once,” he said, and shook his head. “With you around, my life is sweet enough.” Ella blushed and looked away. “What’s your plan for the day?”

Martin carried the box, and August hesitated when offering Ella his arm. Grabbing her wrist, closing his fingers fully over the warm, delicate skin, would be too much. Her arm, too forceful. Everything felt too intimate with her after last night, and his chest tightened. He didn’t want to leave. Thankfully, she settled his uncertainty by threading her arm through his.

“It will be fine,” said August, thinking of the weight of Ella as she had leaned against him the night before. The way the stars had glittered in her eyes. How she had smiled. “She’s worth the risk, anyway.”

“Martin’s rubbing off on me,” he muttered to the lockbox. “I can’t show up to Ella’s with a head full of thoughts like bad poetry.” “Why not? I love bad poetry. It’s much more interesting than good poetry, because someone somewhere thought it was good enough to be written down.”

“You know, Stepmother says poetry is literature for people too dramatic to read.”

“Any needle thin enough probably wouldn’t be strong enough to move the pins,” said August. The way wisps of her hair curled against the nape of her neck made his fingers itch to touch them. “I don’t want you to break all your needles for this.”

“Are you betrothed?” she asked, and leaned back, almost as if she were recoiling at the very words. “What? No,” August said, shaking his head. He couldn’t help laughing softly. “Why would I be betrothed?” She sighed and smiled. “Oh, well, then I promise I don’t mind whatever it is.” August ducked, sure that his blush would show even in the dark. She didn’t want him to be betrothed? She didn’t want him to be betrothed!

“She’s the one who should be embarrassed,” he said softly. “Wasted perfectly good soup.”