Chapter Three: Wren

The sky above the white palace was starless, and Wren was ill at ease. It was well past midnight, and the wind was biting. She drew her cloak tighter. ‘Something doesn’t feel right.’

‘Yeah, no kidding,’ came Shen’s whisper from the dark. ‘We’re about to break into the palace.’

Wren cast her friend a withering look. ‘I mean generally, Shen.’

‘This is the easy part,’ he reminded her. They had already scaled the south wall, and spelled two palace guards into sleep on their patrol. It was only the east tower before them now, rising like a snaggle tooth in the dark. ‘It’s just hand over hand. Foot over foot.’

‘Gravity might not concern you, Shen Lo, but the rest of us have to play by its rules.’

Shen’s smirk glinted in the moonlight. ‘Go on. I’ll be right behind you.’

‘Will you catch me if I fall?’

‘No, but I’ll wave at you on your way down.’

‘Ever the gentleman.’ Wren pressed her palms against the stone. There were subtle grooves in the paving, just enough that she could dig her calloused fingers into the crannies and drag herself up. She kept her body flush against the tower, her cloak spilling out behind her until the clasp pressed against her throat.

‘Focus now, my little Wren,’ echoed her grandmother’s voice in her head. ‘Once inside the palace gates, there can be no room for error.’

Wren’s breath made filmy clouds in the air, her drawstring pouch tapping softly against her hip, as if to remind her it was there. Soon, sweat dripped down her face and pooled under the collar of her shirt. Her fingers began to ache, the muscles in her legs screaming as she scrabbled up the tower like a beetle. Hand over hand, foot over foot.

Behind her, Shen moved like a shadow in the dark.

The tower window edged into view. It peered out over the Silvertongue River like a glassy eye. The latch was open, an inch cracked to welcome a slip of cool air, and tonight, the bandits who came with it.

Wren lunged for the clasp. The window swung wide in a keening creak! as she hauled herself on to the narrow ledge. She fought the urge to smirk over her shoulder at Shen as she slipped quietly into the room. Gravity, be damned.

Moonlight crept in after her, fracturing across the bedroom in pearly shards.

Wren freed the dagger from her boot and kept one hand on her drawstring pouch, readying herself for the palace guard she suspected was stationed in the stairwell outside. When the silence swelled, she let herself relax. The bedroom was grander than she expected. Fringed tapestries hung on ivory walls and gilded wardrobes loomed like spectres in the dimness. The carpet swallowed her footsteps as she snooped around.

She caught sight of her own ghostly reflection in a mirror and nearly jumped out of her skin. Her braid was coming undone, the runaway strands frizzing around her face, where stubborn smudges of dirt and sand had accumulated over the last two days. She looked as if she had been dragged through the desert backwards, then dipped inside a swamp.

A vase of fresh roses perfumed the room with a sickly sweetness. Wren wrinkled her nose. Ugh. The cloying scent was a far cry from the wild heather of Ortha and the familiar tang of seaweed rolling off the ocean. She would have to get used to it.

The sudden rustle of silk drew her to the four-poster bed in the middle of the room. The canopy shifted like mist in the breeze, revealing the crown princess of Eana.

Princess Rose Valhart was as pretty as a painting, and as still and gentle as a cat in slumber.

‘Danger is a faraway thought to Rose,’ said Wren’s grandmother’s voice in her head. ‘She will never see you coming.’

Wren peered over the sleeping princess, ignoring the furious thudding in her chest. The pull towards her was even stronger now, like a fist closing around her heart. ‘Hello, sister,’ she whispered. ‘At last we meet.’

Rose was smiling in her sleep. Her chestnut-brown hair spilled out around her in a halo. In the moonlight, her pale skin was glowing, the apples of her cheeks absent of freckles. Though their faces were identical, it was clear that Rose had never glimpsed the searing desert sun nor known the icy whip of a sea wind.

Lucky for some.

A shadow fell across the bed.

‘You’re blocking my light, Shen,’ Wren whispered.

‘I’m trying not to disturb you.’ Shen was crouched on the window ledge. ‘In case you wanted to, you know, have –’ he cleared his throat – ‘an emotion.’

Wren bristled. ‘I am not having an emotion.’

‘Calm down. I won’t tell your grandmother.’ He swung his legs around and slipped soundlessly into the room. ‘You can be yourself with me.’

In the climb, strands of his black hair had escaped from his leather tie and had come to rest along his forehead. Other than that, he looked immaculate.

Wren looked him over. ‘Did you even break a sweat?’

‘Of course not.’

She kept her voice low. ‘Well. What do you think?’

‘She’s certainly a prettier sleeper than you. You’re a hideous drooler.’

Wren punched him in the arm.

He chewed the smile from the inside of his cheek. ‘You’ve got more freckles. And her hair is darker than yours.’

Wren passed a hand over her braid, frowning.

‘I bet she’s a lot nicer.’

‘I will fling you back out of that window, Shen.’

Rose sighed as she turned over. Her eyelids flickered. Now that she was so close, Wren was seized by the sudden desire to look into her sister’s eyes. Would Rose know her? Would she scream? Would she—

‘Wren!’ hissed Shen. ‘Do the damned spell!’

Rose murmured in her sleep. ‘Celeste?’

A bolt of panic coursed through Wren. She whipped a handful of Ortha sand from her drawstring pouch and opened her palm. Enchantment gathered in her fingers. The words spilled out, fast and loose. ‘From earth to dust, in dark we creep, please put the princess back to sleep!’

Rose snapped her eyes open.

Wren’s heart stuttered as she blew the sand from her palm. It floated like gold-winged fireflies before disappearing into nothing, taking the princess’s gasp with it. Her lids drooped and she flopped against her pillow, unconscious.

Wren tightened the string on her pouch. Her fingers were trembling. She crushed them into her palm. It was foolish really, that moment of hesitation. It wasn’t like Wren didn’t know what to expect to find in the east tower. She had always known she had a twin sister. She had been raised to steal her life, after all, but seeing Rose here, so close and warm and alive, had suddenly filled her with … well, an emotion.

‘Did you see her eyes?’ she whispered.

‘As green as emeralds.’ Shen’s gaze shone too brightly in the moonlight. He was watching her in that way of his, as though he were reading the movements of her soul. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ Wren smiled, thinly. ‘We need to hurry. Give me the rope.’ She set about unravelling it. ‘I’ll anchor you.’

‘Great,’ said Shen, drawing the canopy back. ‘I’ll go ahead and kidnap your sister.’

Wren tied the rope to the nearest bedpost, then tossed it outside the window. When she turned around, Shen was standing in the middle of the room, the princess slung over his shoulder. With remarkable stealth, he climbed back out on to the window ledge. The rope went taut as he lowered himself down the white tower, Rose’s dark hair spilling out like seaweed across his back.

‘Wait!’ hissed Wren. She unhooked her cloak and tossed it out of the window. ‘That nightgown won’t do her much good in the desert.’

Shen caught it by the clasp, without so much as wobbling. ‘And I thought you’d be the evil twin.’

Wren stuck her tongue out. ‘I hope she gives you hell.’

‘Good luck, Wren. I’ll see you on the throne.’ Shen winked as he dropped into darkness, leaving only the echo of his words behind.

Wren jolted into action, then, gathering the rope and burying it under a stack of linens in the bedside table. She slipped out of her climbing clothes, balled up her muddy trousers and loose shirt, and stuffed them under the bed. She stowed her dagger underneath her pillow.

She found a blue nightgown in a chest of drawers and shrugged it on, revelling in the slip of silk against her skin. It was a little big around her middle and the straps were loose on her narrow shoulders, but it was clean and luxuriously soft.

Wren smirked. By the time the moon was full again in a month’s time, she would have her fill of luxury. All she had to do was make it, undetected, to her eighteenth birthday – the day of Rose’s long-awaited coronation. And then she would be Queen; the sole ruler of the island nation of Eana. Free to tear it down, and rebuild it exactly as she liked.

Exactly as it once was.

When she became Queen, Wren would finally be able to take revenge on the Kingsbreath, the man whose frenzied devotion to the Protector had led to the murder of her own parents eighteen years ago. Even just the sight of Willem Rathborne in the rose garden earlier had made Wren’s fingers itch. But she had learned to be patient. First, she would get the crown and then she would have her revenge.

She settled herself at Rose’s dressing table, riffling through endless jars of scented oils and pots of pungent creams. So many perfumes for one princess! Wren unravelled her braid in the mirror, her eyes shining like emeralds in the dark. Her lips were chapped, her skin speckled with desert-borne freckles, and her hair was a bird’s nest on top of her head.

‘Hmm,’ she murmured. ‘Not quite a princess.’

She retrieved a pinch of sand from her drawstring pouch, closed her eyes and conjured an image of Rose in the centre of her mind. She raised her arm and offered her spell into the silence, ‘From earth to dust, with poise and grace, please help me wear my sister’s face.’

The sand disappeared before it touched the crown of her head. Wren revelled in the feather-light touch of her magic, the gentle prickling underneath her skin. She watched her cheeks glow, her suntanned skin shedding its freckles for a light rosy blush. Her hair thickened, the darkening locks growing long and luscious until they reached her waist.

She smirked at the mirror. ‘Hello, Princess.’

Wren turned her hands over, deciding to keep her rough calluses. They reminded her of the wind-battered cliffs of Ortha, and the witches perched along its spine, waiting for a new world.

The world Wren’s grandmother had promised them. As if summoned by thoughts of Banba, a rogue gust of wind slipped inside and knocked a perfume bottle over. Wren yelped.

There was a sharp knock at the door, and then the gruff voice of a palace guard. ‘Everything all right in there, Princess Rose?’

Wren swore under her breath. ‘Perfectly fine, thank you,’ she called back, praying her voice sounded like her sister’s. ‘That pesky wind! I was just getting some fresh air.’

She rushed to slam the window shut, her eyes pinned to the door handle across the room. Silence, then. And with it came the slow trickle of relief. Wren sagged against the glass.

‘I can do this,’ she reminded herself. ‘I was born to do this.’

Wren had spent her whole life preparing for the switch. Under the watchful guidance of her grandmother, she had honed her magic on the beaches of Ortha, until she could fire off quick-tongued enchantments like arrows. She had wiled away long hours with Shen practising stealth and self-defence, sensing when to strike and when to be silent. Thea, Banba’s wife, had instructed Wren in royal etiquette. Wren was no princess, but she had learned how to act like one. How to hold her tongue and trap her swear words, smile demurely and skip gaily, as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

After all, how hard could it be, to play a girl who has never known life outside these palace walls?

Wren flung herself on to the four-poster bed, landing face down like a starfish. She burrowed between the pillows, sinking into the warmth her sister had left behind. She might have felt strange about it if her blood wasn’t buzzing with the success of the switch. She hoped Shen had made it out safely, that the spirit of Ortha Starcrest would guide him safely home to the cliff-side haven the witches had named in her honour.

Wren turned on to her side and slipped her hand underneath her pillow. The dagger was cool to touch; a comfort in this foreign place. With it close at hand, sleep came swiftly. She drifted into darkness, leaving all thoughts of home behind her.

In the morning, she would be Rose Valhart, heir to the throne of Eana.

Sweet and pure and dangerous.

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