Read Online All That Burns by Ryan Graudin - Free Book Online Page B

nearly tumble onto the floor.
    “No.” He’s breathing hard, as if he’s swallowing something back. “Not now.”
    I’m blinking, trying to make sense of those few, blunt words. “What’s wrong?”
    He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at me. “I just—can’t.”
    My lungs are breathless. A vacuum sucked dry. The sparkle in my chest has vanished; in its place is a low ache.
    And I think of the Faery light, how it exploded back to life during our argument. And I remember all those times we kissed, before I gave my powers to Herne. The times Richard left with a bloody lip or sore ribs because my magic ripped through him.
    “Are—are you afraid of me?” The question shudders from my lips. “My power is gone, Richard. What happened to that light earlier . . . that was an anomaly. It won’t happen again.”
    “No.” Richard stands. He’s turned with his back to me. “It’s not you, Embers. I promise.”
    Not me. His words ring false. Hollow. I hear the fear crammed into every one of his long-strung breaths.
    “It’s not you,” he says again, firmer this time. So I know for certain he’s lying. “I’m just—I’m feeling a bit off.”
    My fingers work over my sad dress. Its ruined tulle and unraveling flowers. I pick at a loose thread and pull. Watch all of its beauty come undone from a single snag.
    Not me. Not me. Not me.
    I don’t believe him.
    I gave up my spells and magic. I’ve tried to become one of them. But the mortals are still scared of me. Even Richard.
    I try to ignore the heavy silence that’s fallen between us.
    “Emrys,” Richard murmurs. “You’re hurt.”
    I look to him, so beautiful against the darkness. Candle-glow catches crimson against his fingers. The color is wet, bright. Richard studies it hard in the light before he nods down at my arm. I follow his gaze, realize where the red came from.
    Guinevere’s mark is still bleeding: a slow, steady ooze. I try to smear the blood away with my fingers, but there’s too much. As if the hurt is fresh and not almost a day old.
    “It’s nothing,” I say, even though I know it’s not. From what little I’ve experienced of mortal wounds, I know it shouldn’t still be weeping.
    “I’ll go and find you a bandage,” Richard clears his throat. “Mend it up.”
    It’s not the blood that stings. Not the cut that needs a bandage.
    But because he’s Richard—because he’s mine—I let him.

Seven
    “D o you think I’m making a mistake?” Anabelle asks as she glides across Windsor Castle’s Grand Reception room. So many flowers pour from her arms I can barely see her. Entire bouquets of orchids, carnations, and lilies of the valley.
    “Shouldn’t the florist be doing that?” I ask as she wrestles the arrangements to a corner table.
    Once the princess is sure the vase is secure, she turns, hands on her hips. She’s dressed down today: a tailored button-up and indigo jeans, hair pulled back in a French plait. But Anabelle has a way of making these look like the height of elegance. Even if she is wearing flats.
    “I was checking the flowers”—Anabelle’s voice fades, a cross between a sigh and a hush—“to make sure they’re safe. This is the coronation ball, Emrys! We can’t afford bad press. They’re already abuzz that we’re having it here at Windsor instead of in London. One paper called it a ‘wretched breach of tradition.’ And that was after Mumgave me a two-hour lecture on the subject.”
    “The flowers are fine. Eric and Jensen have already checked them. Three times,” I tell her.
    But the princess is on to other subjects. “What if people think Windsor is too far? What if no one decides to come? What if too many people come?”
    I shut my eyes, try my best to empathize, but the feelings don’t surface. Instead I’m rubbing my temples, trying to fight the dull throb of my skull. I know it’s because I’m not getting enough sleep. I manage only two or three hours a night before I jerk