Page 138 of Of Curses and Courtship

By the time the family of three piles into the carriage, I’ve withered into nothing. Their ride is less extravagant than a royal carriage, and far less than Isa’s glimmering beauty, but it should do the job of getting them out of my hair.

I clutch the axe with white knuckles and wait until I can no longer see them before approaching the darkened house. Magic is heavy here, as if this home is cursed by the same thing that ruined my palace.

Isa is right. The lady of the house is the same sorceress. She must be.

I wiggle the front door, and by some minor miracle, it’s unlocked. It appears the sisters aren’t as useless as I assumed.

Quiet sounds greet me. The ticking of a clock. The click of my feet against the floor. And then, nothingness.

I grip the axe tightly, swing it over my shoulders, and climb the winding staircase to the right, and at the end, as I was told. It’s the smallest room in the house, and the only door that locks from the outside.

Poor Ophelia.

Floorboards creak beneath my heavy gait, and my wings remain tucked but trembling. The wooden axe handle presses into my shoulder, and though I am strong enough to hold it upright, I worry it will push me down into the Hells.

I set the axe down and tap my knuckles against the wooden door. The wood is tough; using the axe on it won’t be simple.

“Who is it?” A voice whispers from inside.

Ophelia. Those aren’t the first words I want to hear from her, but the mere sound of her voice makes my spirits soar.

“It is I.” My throat squeezes tight enough that my words come out choked and mangled, spoken through a sob. “Emyr. I’m here to free you.”

“Emyr?” Helena says. “Gods! Is that really you? I could kiss you!”

“Helena,” Ophelia exclaims.

“What?” Helena says. “He may be a prince, but right now, he’s our bloody savior.”

“He’s more than those things. He’s my betrothed.”

Warmth flushes through me, expanding my chest with adoration. She still considers me her betrothed?

“You left him,” Helena says. “As far as I know, he’s available.”

“That’s enough bickering.” I chuckle. “Iamunavailable,but I’ll try to be your savior nevertheless.” I hold the wire in my shaking hands. “I don’t know how to use this device.”

“Which one?” Ophelia asks. “The wire, or the axe?”

“Both—but the wire. The axe is… it’s self-explanatory, I suppose.”

“Shove it in and wiggle it around,” Helena says. “Let us see if we can make a locksmith of ya.”

“Where didyoulearn to do this?” I mutter, shoving the wire into the keyhole.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.” Helena sighs. “You’re doing it wrong already, Your Highness. Try to get the bit bent in?—”

We spend too long like that, with Helena giving me instructions and me failing each one. The ticking clock becomes another curse. The sound lives in my mind. Each time I drop the wire, letting out a puff of frustration, the tick is louder.

“Enough.” I pick up the axe. “Stand back. I’m breaking the door down.”

“Do what you must,” Ophelia says.

“How attractive,” Helena squeals.

TIK-TOK… TIK-TOK…

I pay no mind to the squabbling behind the door and shove the sharpened axe into the wood. It barely makes a dent. I go again, pushing it into the same spot. The splintered wood grows.