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BRINLEY WOKE EARLY the next morning. She cracked open an eye and squinted at the alarm clock on the nightstand, frowning when she saw it was just past six. She had slept for only two hours, but any chance of returning to sleep was erased when the memories of the day before came flooding back.
She groaned into the crook of her elbow, trying to hide the sound from Finn, who snored gently on his stomach beside her. He looked so soft and defenseless when he slept, his features relaxed, his devastating mouth parted slightly as he breathed. The mere recollection of the reporters’ questions and that nauseating word—divorce—had her rolling quietly out of bed and tiptoeing around to collect her tablet from the dresser. It was unnerving to think how wrong divorce felt to her now, even after so little time as a married woman. As a married woman of twenty-two, who had been ordered to wed in the first place.
She retreated to the sofa and curled up on the cushions to torture herself with the morning’s headlines. Charles had been good enough to email her links to each of the papers that carried the story, and her inbox boasted eighty-six new messages.
Brinley yawned.
Eighty-seven.
She sighed, and though the smart thing would be to select them all and press delete, she was well known for seldom doing the right thing, and now she clicked on the first message.
Shattered Egg, Shattered Future? Princess Brinley Cantrella of Estau was a featured guest at Castle Lenora last evening, but one doubts she will be invited back after spoiling what was intended to be a very special announcement...
She clicked the next message.
Broken Egg, Broken Dreams?
Egg On Her Face.
A Royal Blunder.
Bad Princess, Good Riddance?
The photos were horrendous. They showed Brinley, arms flailing as she tripped. They showed the dismayed faces of the royal family as the egg toppled helplessly to the ground. They showed Finn’s grim frown as he looked at his wife. They showed Brinley’s open mouth, her desperation plain as she fielded the reporters’ prying questions.
She felt her throat tighten and her sinuses sting, warm tears trickling from her eyes and dripping off her chin. She knew how to cry quietly.
She scrolled through the headlines, all with the same harsh refrain: how had such a bad princess married such a good man? And how much longer could he stomach her if this was how she behaved? The night before was further proof, additional fuel to the bonfires they had been waiting to light, never expecting the opportunity to send her up in flames to come so soon. Not even after Elle had abdicated had they been so cruel. They painted Elle as a victim of circumstance, a misunderstood angel who had finally found the courage to spread her wings.
Left behind in the scattered pile of feathers and ashes was...Brinley.
She read as much as she could before the threat of retching became all too real, then set aside the tablet and went to the bathroom to splash icy water on her face and brush her teeth. She needed space. She needed to go somewhere no one could find her, judge her, ridicule her. She needed room to put on her armor and prepare for the next round of fire. She was not a traditionally “good” princess, but that did not mean she was bad. Just...different. And a little bit bad.
She peered through the crack in the door at Finn, his broad shoulders exposed above the sheet, one hand clutching the pillow as though he expected it to run away. She loved him, but she wished he were not so perfect, so above reproach. He was a constant reflection of everything she could not be, everything she had failed to be, and everything she had given up wanting to be. She had assigned the role of good princess to Elle, and with her sister gone, there was no one left to fill the shoes. The glass slippers would remain empty. Or, if Brinley were to go near them, shatter into a million pieces, all the better for a humiliating photo op.
She contemplated tucking herself into the corner of the library, but knew it would take just a short while for them to find her there. She thought about hiding in the kitchen—the staff would ignore her, but she would know they were whispering. She considered the dungeon, but Finn knew how to find it and would eventually come looking. There was nowhere to truly hide in this castle, one of its many, ancient faults.
And then it hit her.
She did not have to remain in the castle at all.
* * *
IT WAS EARLY ENOUGH that the only people awake were a handful of kitchen staff and castle security. The hallways were empty as Brinley casually strolled toward the textiles collection room—their textiles collection was so large it required its own room—carrying a bulging backpack, its weight bumping against her knees with each step. She wore jeans with a sweatshirt and a pair of boots, and she prayed no one asked where she was going because she really had no believable excuse. A fine layer of snow covered the grounds and dusted the trees in the forest, and the sun would not rise for another hour. There was no good reason for a good princess to be going outside.
The textiles collection was tucked away in the southern corner, at the edge closest to the forest. The tunnel entry was hidden there, having once been a safety measure for the castle, a secret exodus should they be held under siege. It burrowed out beneath the grounds and under the tall brick walls that surrounded them, emerging at a nondescript place in the forest beyond. It was both a way out for fleeing royalty and a way in for necessary foodstuffs and supplies. In modern times the tunnel had been viewed as an unnecessary risk and left to collapse—or so was the story. Elle believed it; Brinley had not. It had taken her years of searching, and she had kicked nearly every brick in the castle in her quest, but when she was fifteen she finally found it.
The security cameras were focused on the doorways to the collection rooms, leaving a convenient blind spot for the tunnel entry. A small table holding a gold urn marked the location, and Brinley shifted it aside and kicked the second brick from the bottom, hearing the familiar grinding of gears as the door eased open. Her heart pounded in her chest and her fingers gripped the bag, knuckles white with nerves and excitement. She ducked inside the dark passageway and quickly shut the door behind her, the darkness and silence absolute as she fumbled in her bag for her trusted lantern.
Much like the tunnel that led to the dungeon, this one had packed clay walls and floors made of rock, the smell of damp and mildew permeating the cold air. It descended swiftly into the bowels of the castle, winding its way in sharp twists, the ground mostly sloping, with the occasional landing for a visitor to get their bearings before hastening down to the next level.
Brinley had told Elle about the tunnel in a fit of teenage angst. She could no longer recall the exact angsty moment, only that she had, one night, burst into tears and shared her wish to run away. When Elle asked how, exactly, one might escape the confines of the castle, Brinley had confessed her discovery. When Elle asked, where, exactly, the tunnel entry was hidden, Brinley had shown her. But never once had she imagined Elle making this same perilous trip. Never once had she imagined that she might not come back. She was Elle Vida, the future of Estau. Until she wasn’t.
The tunnel grew swiftly colder the deeper Brinley went, and she paused at one point to pull on the down-filled jacket she carried, zipping it up to her chin. A wool hat covered her ears, and gloves warmed her fingers. By the time she reached the forest exit, she felt like she was in a mine. The walls were crumbling dirt, supported by old wooden beams that looked ready to collapse at any minute. The air was crisp and cold, her breath appearing in front of her in short white puffs.
The first time Brinley found this tunnel, she explored all the way to the very end. The heavy concrete door locked from the inside, a crude latch system that would be easy enough to dismantle if anyone knew it existed. It had been summer then, stray shoots of sunlight peeking around the edges of the door, telling her even before she pushed it open that it would lead outside.
Seeing the castle walls from beyond their confines had been a novel experience, exciting and terrifying at the same time. The rambling stone structure loomed a short distance away, the dark forest surrounded her, and for the first time in her life, she had been free. She had not had the courage then to explore much farther than the very immediate area, and as she’d gotten older the urge to escape had lessened since it seemed very much that she was welcome to leave, anyway.
Now Brinley gritted her teeth as she used her fist to hammer at the frozen latches, lifting one, then the other, with great effort. She shouldered open the door, feeling it grind on its icy hinges before swinging open with a groan. She emerged from the side of a small rocky hill and rested a stone in the opening to prevent the door from clunking shut behind her, the heavy latches stuck in an upright position, ready to fall back down at the slightest provocation.
It had taken more time than she expected to complete the trek, and now the first rays of sunshine peeked above the treetops and mountain ridges. It glinted off patches of sparkling snow, and the sheer rareness of this moment—this anonymity—gave Brinley goosebumps. If she wanted it, she could be free. It wasn’t strictly necessary to escape through a secret tunnel; if she wanted to abdicate, all she had to do was say so. She was fairly certain her parents would not dispute the issue and it would make for an exciting news cycle. It also felt wryly symmetrical to abandon her life as Elle had done; a satisfying way to thumb her nose at the castle and traditions that had always shunned her.
Except.
Except even with the world rolling out around her, she felt more tethered to this place than ever. It was not just her birthright, her family, her home. It was her husband. It was the possibility he presented, the ally he could be. The opportunity to have someone to support her, if he could just figure out how. And she believed he could. After the encounter with his parents, she knew he had seen so little support in his own life that he was not terribly sure how to offer it now, but she trusted that he would, if given the chance. He was nothing if not honorable. She could learn from him. They could learn from each other.
Brinley turned to peer at the castle, rising out of the gray mists of the morning. At this very moment Finn was fast asleep in the far wing, close enough to return to, and far enough to leave.
She took a deep breath, the icy air chilling her lungs and prickling the inside of her nose. Her cheeks and fingertips tingled with the first signs of numbness, and she braced herself before starting the short journey to the tree line.
She had never explored this part of the forest. When she was four, she and Elle had been allowed to join their father and Charles as they visited the woods to chop down their very own Christmas tree. Swiftly losing interest in the expedition, Brinley had instead spotted a gorgeous-looking mushroom, red with white spots, just like in the fairy tales she still believed were true. Then she had eaten it and fallen ill and been banned from entering the woods ever again.
Now she used her lantern to light the way as she entered the thick copse of trees, the smell of pine and damp earth making her giddy. She was here. She had done it. She did not know the exact route Elle had taken when she departed, but Brinley imagined it was just like this. Except unlike Brinley, Elle had had a very specific destination in mind, and someone waiting for her there. Brinley’s someone was behind her, and likely had no idea she had gone.
Her boots crunched over frozen snow and tiny patches of ice, her lantern illuminating the immediate area as rays of sunshine battled their way through snow-laden branches. The sun was rising swiftly, making the woods feel brighter and safer, each step away from the castle more appealing than the last.
Brinley was not sure how long she walked. She knew the forest surrounding the castle was unoccupied for many kilometers, the land rocky and unforgiving. She walked far enough that the sun rose completely and she returned her lantern to her bag, far enough that she grew warm and comfortable, far enough that when she turned to look behind her she could see nothing but trees, not even the peaked roofs of the castle. The future was a blank slate, she had only to pick a direction to determine it.
The forest had been relatively quiet during her journey, so it came as a shock when a rapidly increasing buzzing sound shattered the silence. Brinley had passed several unmarked pathways through the trees, the ground flattened in places, as though something had driven over it. She figured it was the castle’s patrols, or if she had gone far enough, signs of outdoor enthusiasts cross country skiing or—
The buzzing increased to a shrill roar, and Brinley pressed herself tightly against the side of a tree, out of sight, her heart pounding as a white snowmobile zipped up the pathway toward her. She stayed perfectly still and waited for the driver to pass. She was not afraid of being attacked; she was afraid of being recognized. After last night’s miserable news and the morning’s horrible stories, she could not bear to think of her father’s reaction if she were shepherded back to the castle with nothing but a poorly thought out plan, a lantern, and a box of granola bars.
The snowmobile slowed as it neared, the driver wearing a white helmet and jacket with matching pants. The dark visor was pulled down, obscuring his face, and Brinley briefly entertained the idea that it could be Finn, coming to look for her. But as the snowmobile passed Brinley knew the driver wasn’t tall enough or broad enough to be her husband, that he wasn’t quite—
Oh, crap. He was turning around.
There was a small clearing ten meters away, and Brinley stumbled back farther into the trees as the driver reversed directions and eased back down the pathway, stopping exactly six feet away from where she had been standing. Her heart thumped inside her chest, nausea welling in her throat. What did he want?
“Brinley?” called the driver, voice muffled but familiar. “Come out. I know you are in there.” He twisted the key in the ignition and the machine’s motor cut off, cloaking them in silence. Brinley watched in shock and awe as he lifted his hands and pulled off the helmet, shaking his head, choppy blond hair sticking out in every direction.
Oh, fucking hell.
It was Elle.