1

Once upon a time, nestled in the valley between two mighty mountain ranges, there was a big city known as Evermore. Evermore was a beautiful place, with tall white walls protecting the inside, and layers upon layers of cobblestone streets lined with cozy houses and shops. And at the top of the city, standing tall and silent, casting sharp shadows over the people, was Castle Silverhold, home to the royal family.

This morning, the castle was emptier than it had been in quite some time. The night before, in the darkness and cacophony of the worst storm of the season, an assassin had snuck into the King and Queen's quarters, and had taken their lives.

This story is about the King and Queen's eldest daughter, the fifteen-year-old Princess of Evermore, Elodie Ashking.

Elodie sat on the cobblestones in her mother's garden, the birds fluttering from rosebush to rosebush. They were noticeably quiet, and seemed to be watching her closely, as if there were something interesting about her for the first time.

Bishop, High Counsel of the King of Evermore, appeared in that way only Bishop could appear – Suddenly, soundlessly, emerging from round a hedge.

"There you are," Bishop said. His footsteps were so even and quiet, his robes flowing down around his feet that he seemed to float towards her, lowering himself to sit on the ground beside her.

He did not know what to say. No one did.

Elodie slowly, ever-so-slowly, shifted her gaze from the fat red bird that was pecking at the ground beneath a fledgling rosebush, and studied Bishop's face, finding a mask of concern over his features. Elodie was pretty sure that now that Ma was dead, the world would shortly end. She was certain of it. The wind could not blow, the moon could not shine, the flowers could not bloom. Not without the breath of her mother, the beat of her gentle heart.

Deep within her soul, she knew that nothing could continue as it had been, without her mother.

Slowly, Bishop wrapped his arm around her. She was cold and stiff, but relented quickly as he drew her in, allowing herself to be pressed against his chest.

He kissed the top of her head, smoothing out her mess of blonde hair. She looked nothing like a princess this morning. Her hair was undone, her face without makeup. She was still dressed in her nightgown, and a simple pair of slippers that were now stained with mud. She looked up at him with wide, red-ringed eyes and forced a single question through her dry, pained throat.

"What do we do now?" She asked.

Bishop smiled, as best he could.

"We'll talk about it later," he told her. "Let's just focus on making it through the day, hm?"

She nodded, her body slowly relaxing as she dropped her head onto his shoulder, watching the birds in the garden again.

Bishop lifted his hand and pointed at a tiny brown, white, and black bird, hopping across the grass like a rabbit.

"That's a dusktail," he explained, then moved his finger to point up into a tree where a patterned woodpecker clung to the bark. "And that's a nightwing."

His voice was soft and warm, and he pointed around the garden for what felt like hours, telling her the names of every bird that flew or hopped or dove into sight. The garden began to feel more like it had before, like a living, breathing place within the castle walls.

Bishop wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her closer.

"Do you feel that?" He asked in a whisper.

"Feel what?" She replied.

"That spirit," he told her.

She shook her head. "I don't feel anything."

He smiled, and patted her hair. "That's alright, my dear."

"What do you mean by 'a spirit'?" She prodded. Bishop was normally prone to over-explaining every little thing, talking himself in circles until he'd said the same thing a hundred times. Of course, growing up, that had been the only way to teach Elodie, inattentive as she was.

But now he was very quiet, and, it seemed, mysteriously unwilling to explain.

"A spirit, my dear," He insisted. "A specter? A ghost?"

She sat up a little straighter, at first surprised, then she sighed. "I'm not in the mood for fairytales right now, Bishop."

He shook his head. "Fairy tales? When have I ever told you fake stories?"

She shrugged. "Everyone tells stories."

"They're real, Elodie, dear." He said, his voice low as if warning her of a predator sneaking up on her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. He was right, he'd never told her tall tales before, as far as she knew. He'd never lied, or even really been mistaken.

She turned towards him a little more, and dropped her voice to his level.

"And you say there's one right here? Right now?"

He nodded, quite sure. "At least, it was. I think you upset it when you said it wasn't real."

She bumped him on the shoulder with a fist, scolding him. "Now you're just playing with me!"

He laughed, gently and carefully bumping her back. "Cross my heart, it was here."

She let out a puff of frustrated air. "You're such a fibber," she told him. But part of her knew that he was not a fibber. Bishop had never told her a lie in her life. For a split second, she thought back to the moment he'd told her about the spirit.

Had there been a change in the air? Or was it just her imagination?

After a few moments, Bishop stood and offered her his hand. She took it and pulled herself up to her feet, dusting the dirt and debris off of her nightgown. He leaned down and swiped off a twig she'd missed, and then began leading her by the hand back into the castle. Down the halls, around corners, past bookcases and candles and cozy little sitting rooms, finally to the dining room. He pulled out a chair and she sat, and he pushed it back in.

She glanced up at the clock high on the wall, and squinted to see.

"Just about noon," Bishop told her. "Do you need eyeglasses, my dear?"

She shook her head, and he sat down beside her, placing the daily menu down on the table. Why's the clock have to be all the way up there? She thought, feeling the distinct twinge of anger boiling up. It was unexpected, but not immediately unwelcome.

"The kitchen attendant says that the order of flour is late," he explains. "So unfortunately, your favorite biscuits aren't on the menu today. But he did say that he'd make you absolutely anything you want otherwise, even if it isn't on the list."

She nodded.

"I'm not–"

"You need to eat," he insisted. "You didn't have breakfast."

She shook her head, putting her hand on her stomach. "I'm really not hungry, Bishop, I'll be sick."

"What about tea and cheese?" He offered, pointing to the short list of teas that the attendant had written down. "I think mint sounds good."

She frowned, and pursed her lips. The thought of anything, even water, made her stomach turn and her throat shrink up. How could she eat? How could she stomach it, when she still couldn't stomach the night's events?

"Fine," she finally agreed.

"Wonderful," he purred. "I'll take mine in the study, I have a meeting."

"Can I come?"

He smiled. "Sure. In fact, it might be good to have you in there for this meeting. It is, after all, about you."

The study was rather dark. Elodie didn't usually like to stay in Bishop's study for very long, but she didn't know where else to go, or what else to do. The castle was so big, and everywhere she went, she could smell her father's cologne, and she could see her mother's hands in every room and the arrangement of every piece of furniture. They were everywhere, but gone.

But Bishop was still here.

She knew she wouldn't be able to do anything, but at least if someone came for him, next, she'd be there. Or if they came for her, he'd be there.

She sipped the mint tea, smelling it and bathing in the heat as the sweet-smelling steam coated her face.

The plate of cheese sat on the table beside her, untouched. It had been sitting there so long that it'd begun to sweat under the light of the gas lamp illuminating the room.

Bishop and the counselors were talking about crop shortages and fugitives from the city's bounty hunters, but finally things began to slow and quiet.

Finally, Bishop replaced the parchment on his desk with a new one, and looked over at Elodie.

"Your Highness?" He asked.

She glanced up from her cup of tea, finally coming back to reality and returning to the conversation.

"I know… It might be a difficult thing to discuss, but we have important business."

"What is it?" She asked, sitting up a little straighter.

"Well…" Bishop began. After a moment, one of the other counselors, a broad man with a bushy white beard, a man named Faustic, took over.

"With your mother and father eliminated by an unknown enemy, the neighboring cities will be worried that we can't control our territory. They might try to take over if we don't regain power over our people… And we believe the best way to quickly reassure them would be to host your coronation as soon as we can."

She blinked at them, folding her eyebrows together as if they'd given her a tongue twister to decipher. She seemed to glare down at the dark green carpet for a long moment, visibly chewing on the inside of her cheek.

She looked up at Bishop in a split second, tense.

"How soon?"

He shook his head, and held out his hands. "A week, maybe. Any longer than a month would be pushing it."

"Are you serious?" She fumed. "I mean, what business is it of theirs how we're doing?"

Once again, Faustic interjected. "Well, your Highness… It's just the way of things. We put ourselves at risk without a pureblood sovereign on the throne of Silverhold."

She made a dismissive gesture with her hands. "I need– I need to think about it."

Bishop reached across his desk and rested a hand on her arm.

"Princess," he reasoned. "I know you're upset. But we need to put our people first."

She frowned at him. Finally, she stood up from the couch and slammed her cup of tea down on the table. She glared at the counselors for a moment, shifting her furious gaze from face to face, and then stormed out.

"Wait, Princess–"

"Let her go," Bishop told them. "It's been a long day."

"But we don't have a lot of time–"

"I know that. I'll talk to her tomorrow. She'll come around."