Page 157 of Fearless

I shove the thought away and pull open one of the small drawers. It is stuffed with shiny rings, all bands of shimmering gold and silver. Beside it is a drawer littered with bracelets. But it’s the one beneath that has me pausing.

No jewelry. No gems. Only the brittle head of a rose.

I run a gentle finger over the dried petals, watching them crumble beneath my touch. My breath catches in surprise. This flower is older than I am.

A folded piece of parchment lies beneath its severed stem. Carefully, I slip it from the drawer’s clutches, though the wood clings fiercely to it. Time has aged the note, creasing the edges and yellowing the paper. I unfold it slowly to reveal a hastily written message in looping handwriting.

Meet me in the garden at midnight. Wear a cloak—you are too beautiful to be seen with me. My heart is yours, always.

I stare blankly at the note.

This was not meant for my eyes. I feel as though I’ve intruded on an intimate moment that was supposed to remain forever preserved within this box. And yet, I can’t seem to tear my gaze from it.

This was not the king she was meeting. No, the queen would not sneak about the castle with her own husband.

She had a lover.

I set the paper down with a sigh. It feels odd to pluck a piece of one’s life from belongings of the dead. To accuse the late queen of being unfaithful feels stranger still. And yet, staring down at the note, something nags at me distantly.

I dismiss the feeling, deciding instead to explore the other drawers. Hair clips in one, more rings in the other. My fingers tug at the last compartment, fighting to free the shallow drawer. With a groan, it gives up, sliding out to unveil a stack of crumpled notes.

It’s that same smudged handwriting that stains each piece of parchment. I skim through the short letters, each one more cryptic than the last.

Time. Place.I love you, always.

My fingers fumble blindly around the drawer, searching for any forgotten pieces of the past. A creased sheet of parchment lives in the corner of the compartment, contorted against the wood for what has likely been years. I pry it out before forcing deep ridges from the yellowing paper, flattening it against my dress-draped knee. Inspecting further, I flip it over and—

I’ve never looked into the face of a ghost, but I imagine this is what it would feel like.

My whole body goes numb as the photograph slips from between my fingers. Something grips my very soul, certain and crushing. It’s familiarity, I realize. It’s recognition of yourself within another.

I stare at the woman. She stares up at me.

Her bright blue eyes are nearly as vibrant as the smile she wears. There’s a certain warmth in her gaze, in the rosiness of her cheeks. Light blond hair cascades over her shoulders, falling in loose waves. And her nose…

I take a shuddering breath before lifting the photograph in front of my face.

Her nose is dusted with freckles.

I stare at the queen. She stares up at one.

Blood claims blood. And when I look at Iris Moyra, the late and beloved queen of Ilya, I see a shade of her coursing through my veins. And blood never forgets.

The parchment flutters to the bed as I press a steadying hand to my thumping heart.

This is absurdity.

That is what I tell myself, over and over again. This is a coincidence, a picture that shares a slight resemblance.

I am no royal. I am no daughter of a queen.

The door creaks open, and I hardly hear the footsteps that follow. I’m still studying the photo when a figure strides into view, stopping before my bed. My gaze lifts begrudgingly from Iris’s face to land on Calum.

He stands there, stoic as always. But I watch the color drain from his face.

Time seems to stall—Calum’s gaze on the pile of notes, mine on the bouquet of flowers he holds.

Pink roses.

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