King of the Woodlands

Chapter 25

The next day, they flew back to the cave. Lilibeth didn't bother bathing—she liked the tickly feeling of grass beneath her feet, dark lines of earth embedded beneath her fingernails and buried in the crevices between her toes. So she merely changed into a loose tunic and cerise overalls, allowing Birgit to braid her hair into a neat coil.

Lilibeth made her way outside, helping herself to a peppermint cream dipped in chocolate. She found the Woodland King just outside the cave, his claws tangled in a piece of brittle white grass. There was a mirror laid beside him, the glass splotched with black, encircled by a frame that was nothing more than threads of silver. He was still wearing the crown of daisies and daffodils she'd made for him.

"Hello," she said, dropping to her knees beside him. "Lovely day, isn't it?" Indeed, the days were getting lovelier and lovelier. Albion had set down a watering can and a pale bottle of honeydew soap, intent on "bringing some sweet smells and green grass to this dead place".

He turned to her, his jaw set and stubborn, eyes fierce, as if he were fighting with himself.

"Lilibeth," he said finally, "do you miss your home?"

"Every day." She missed her triple-milled soaps and hand-poured candles, missed her patchwork quilts and soft plush bears she'd sewn herself with brown fleece. She hadn't realized how much she'd miss her ordinary, boring village, but for Father, she'd thrown herself into this fire knowing that she'd be burned, but too impulsive to realize that the burns would carve scars into her skin.

He turned away, his gaze ashamed and sad. Once, she'd begged him to let her carry some of his mountains, let her lift some of the burden from his shoulders. He hadn't spoken, and he wasn't speaking now. Was this another silent battle of his, a battle he refused to let anyone else fight?

"I can't take you home," the Woodland King said, and Lilibeth's heart sank. "But with this mirror . . . you can see it. It will show you your home."

"Why can't you take me home?" Lilibeth whispered. "S-someday, I want to go back. To see my father. He's all I have left."

He growled and shook his head, and she knew that he was trying to block out her words as if they were nothing more than crickets nipping at him. "You don't understand, Lilibeth," he said, his voice rising. She flinched. "I can't tell you why. And I want to, but I'm forbidden to."

"Why?" she cried, not caring that she was being nosy. She was wild with desperation, and in that moment of frantic need, all her layers had been peeled away like a flower's petals, leaving behind a raw core of dark pollen. "It's not fair, it's not—"

"I know," he said. "And I'm . . . sorry. But I am bound unfairly, against my will. That is all I can tell you without—without bringing harm upon myself. But if you'd like to see your village, this mirror can show you. It is all I can do to ease your pain, and I'm sorry. It's not enough, and it never will be. But if it comforts you, then I'm more than willing to show you."

His eyes stole the words from her mouth. She could only open and close it dumbly, a fish on land. Part of her wanted to rage and shout. Another wanted to bury her head in her hands and cry uncontrollably. It was cruel, but what angered her was that it was also reasonable. He was giving her all he had, but he was right—it wasn't enough. But she couldn't fight back, for what he said made perfect sense. She wanted to believe that he was selfish for not letting her go, but he wasn't. He was doing all that he could, even if it wasn't enough. He was doing the right thing, and doing the right thing was never easy. He wasn't selfish, not at all.

But oh, what she would give just to see a glimpse of her home again, how the villagers were faring without her. Was Father happy again? Did he cook stew from onions and parsnips and play the bagpipes? Or did he fall apart with grief, a broken man, unable to be whole without his wife and daughter?