Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“No,” Henry whispered, his eyes slowly closing as he realized what was going on.
“Sebastian Ambrose,” my mother’s voice came from behind me. “It is you.”
Suddenly I was being ripped upward by the back of my coat. My mother’s grip had always been preternaturally strong, despite her thin frame.
There was no use fighting. I stumbled as I came to a standing position, unable to look Henry in the eyes as he got up.
My mom’s cold fingers were underneath my chin, then, tossing my head up like I was a broken wooden puppet.
Her eyes were like spikes going straight through me as she glared at me. Her white-blonde hair whipped around her in the wind, her face twisted into a cruel frown.
“So this is why you like this godforsaken village so much,” she said. She glanced down at the nearly empty bottle of liqueur, giving it a kick with the pointed toe of her boot.
“Mrs. Ambrose, it wasn’t his fault,” Henry protested from behind me.
“That is Queen Charlotte Ambrose to you, boy,” she spat at Henry.
“Stop,” I said, the word coming out more like a meager gasp.
“You have to believe me,” he said, not backing down.
“Not a word from you,” she told Henry, her eyes pinned on me again. “You are drunk. You’re out late at night alone. You’re on top of another boy, your tongue in his mouth—”
“It wasn’t his fault,” Henry repeated, steadfast this time. “The bottle was mine. I started everything. Don’t blame him.”
She didn’t even acknowledge Henry. His words flew right past her.
“This is not how the King of Frostmonte behaves,” my mother said, pulling her handkerchief out of her coat pocket and harshly brushing dirt off the side of my face.
“I’m not the King,” I said.
“But you are a prince,” she said, her voice sharp. “A prince that will one day be king. And no matter how much you deny it, Sebastian, it is your destiny.”
The cloth was rough and dry as she scrubbed at my face more than she needed to. It was like she was trying to rub a stain out of a dress. “Unacceptable in every way. What if someone saw you?”
“See you tomorrow, Sebastian,” Henry said, leaning to whisper in my ear as he squeezed the small of my back where my mother wouldn’t notice.
“Don’t go—”
“It wasn’t his fault,” Henry repeated to my mother before he took off across the street. My heart felt empty without him nearby, already.
“Why are you even here?” I finally managed to muster.
She froze, her eyes boring into me like twin icicles. “You’re coming home with me to the castle.”
“I’m going back tomorrow,” I said.
“Tonight,” she said, her voice final. “Right now. And you will stay in the castle. No more of this village nonsense. You’re a prince, and it’s finally time to act like one.”
“What?” I protested, feeling like all the blood was leaving my body at once. “But you said until I was eighteen I could come to Berrydale—”
“You’re never coming back here,” she said.
“No,” I said, the word coming out more like a feeble whimper.
“The decision is made. And it should have been a long time ago,” she said. She shook her head, giving me a bitter glance. “What would your father think of all this?”
My chest was tightening more now, like it was slowly and relentlessly being crushed under a heavy weight. One that would never go away.
All I could think about was how wrong Henry had been.
None of this had been his fault. It was all me. Every part of it, from coming outside past curfew to kissing him on the ground.
It was my fault that I wouldn’t get to spend time with Henry anymore.
The castle loomed in the distance like a pitchfork jutting out of the mountain, gusts of wind blowing sheets of snow all around it.
I hadn’t been cold before, when I’d been so close to Henry.
But now, as I stared at the castle that would now become my permanent home, I finally started to shiver.
1
Henry
Eleven Years Later
They say you can never really come home, but they don’t know a damned thing about the village of Berrydale.
When I stepped out of my truck in front of my mom’s old beat-up cottage, eleven years after leaving Berrydale, it felt every bit like coming home.
My stomach churned as I looked at the house from the sidewalk.
Nothing had changed. There was still the broken shutter on my old bedroom window, hanging slightly lopsided, neglected for years. Mom’s old white Buick was still parked out front, paint chipping, the right-side mirror cracked. The place still looked more like a cabin than a regular house, wood stained from years of rain and snow, like the house itself was trying to give up.
Only one thing had changed. The tiny little pine tree that Sebastian and I had planted eleven years ago was fully grown now. It was a beautiful, lone tree, right on the line between his aunt and uncle’s property and my mom’s. On a snowy day like today, it almost looked too perfect, half covered in plush white snow.