Author's Note: This fic is dedicated to the beautiful Cara who brightens my life in so many ways. Darling heart, I love you dearly.

Before reading, please note that this fic is packed to the brim with the corniest, floweriest, most ridiculously starlit romance tropes I could muster, because why bother to write a fairy-tale if you're not going to go full dark no stars? It's a bit Beauty and the Beast, a bit Shrek, a lot Jily, and I'm having an absolute riot packing it with fluff and banter. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

I did a little world-building for this fic, which can be found on my Tumblr sideblog, which this site won't allow me to link to with HTML but the username is ghostofbambifanfiction. Any other information or backstory will also be posted there.

Finally, I need to give a special shout-out to my friend Ana, who wouldn't fucking stop going on about donkeys until I agreed to make her a donkey in this story. So now she's a donkey. Ana the donkey.

Chapter One

Once upon a time...

Think of a girl with moonlight on her face, softly slipping through the trees on a warm summer night, a summer of firsts, long, lonely days and hours spent sleepless in the thick, black dark, a summer of loss incomparable, of voices that murmur 'no good' behind curtains, of a mother who looks without seeing, of a father who sighs and shudders and stills, of a sister, tall and grave and no longer a sister at all, but a queen.

A very little girl with skin like cream, emerald eyes and hair like molten fire, she seeks comfort in sky and sunshine, in the branches of trees, in the trickle of streams and the whispers she hears beneath fat, coloured toadstools. Watch her bare feet skim over pebbles, pass unscathed through jagged paths and muddy puddles. Watch the flowers that open and close in the palm of her hand, and the water that bends to comply with her wishes. Listen to the rain beat tremulous rhythms at her will. See the sudden summer snow in one westernmost corner.

Watch her be watched by a pair of cold eyes. Listen to a heartbeat slow until it's frozen by hatred. See the colour of envy, greener than a little girl's eyes. The scratch of a quill. Coins exchanged in some dark, onerous place. A burst of flame, and a crash, a scream in the night, child's scream, girl's scream, a very little girl with no puddles left to skip through. The toadstools will cease to whisper and the branches will creak in the winter wind, waiting for a footfall that never returns. They stole the summer from her now.

Think of a girl in a room with no windows, consigned only to memory now. Waiting. Hoping. Hopeless. Lost.

One year. Two years. Three years. Ten.

Think of her.

Ten years later...

King Fleamont falls as if time has been dragged through quicksand, a languid, silent sweep, but hits the ground at sudden speed, one hand clasped to his neck, a gleaming, sticky stream of blood seeping through his clenched fingers, and his son screams - a soundless, strangled thing - and then there's searing pain, and darkness.

He wakes to everything different. Father dead. Mother dying. Peter dead. His friends abandoned in a dungeon. He wakes to green hangings that adorn the castle walls, wands snapped in half, and his legs in shackles, and a hook-nosed, cretinous beast who calls himself the king. And pain. Not the ringing in his head, a delicate lump that stings when prodded, but the ache in his heart, raw and constant, something that pounds on his bones and tears at his sinew and begs him to thrash and scream, but his body can't find the strength to comply.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this, and he can't think how it did. Everything had been so carefully planned - the alliance, the deal, the banquet and the ball - and someone must have helped, but who? He cannot think. He cannot fathom. He should have known, or guessed, or suspected, but Mother had been ill. Mother would have known, because she knew everything, but she had been so fragile, for weeks on end, distracting Father. Distracting him. Leaving them exposed and vulnerable. She hasn't yet recovered. He thinks she never will.

It had been his birthday, he vaguely recalls, the day they cut his father's throat.

Nineteen and orphaned. Almost.

"The king wants to see you later," said Crabbe, and smacked him round the back of the head.

They liked doing that, the guards.

Clearly, they were jealous of his hair, James had suggested a few weeks back, a jibe designed to anger the big, ugly bald one - he hadn't found it necessary to learn each and every name - which earned him another whack. That had hurt like hell, but his mother had smiled when he recounted the story, and told him she was glad to see his sense of humour intact, so the pain had been worth it, in the end. Euphemia had precious little reason to smile, and he was her only child, so he had to do his best to keep her spirited.

His head hurt often these days. He'd sustained quite the lump to his noggin during the takeover, and Snape's guards seemed utterly determined that it not go away. That was hard enough to take as it was, but harder still to take on his knees, a position he was forced to assume whenever the guards called upon the one-room shack they now called home, where he was kept imprisoned by nothing but devotion. Snape may have been a vile, evil prick, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that James would never run, not when his mother was incapable of walking.

If he'd had his wand. If.

But his father had been adamant that they conduct the banquet in peace, surrendering wands and weapons at the doors. That had been the last James saw of Peter, when he handed his wand to his manservant and bade him to take it to his room, and Peter scurried off, dutiful to a fault, as always, and doomed to die in minutes. James had been dragged to the throne room the next day, and forced to watch while Snape snapped his wand in half. It hadn't felt like it mattered at the time - his father had been killed, and that was everything, the only thing, swallowing every other thing whole like an ever-expanding abyss - but two months on, it smarted.

"When am I needed?" he said, not of a mind to cheek Crabbe in front of his mother. He would have, if she'd been sleeping, but she grew so upset when she saw him hurt, and Crabbe was the most heavy-handed of all Snape's men.

"The king is taking his breakfast," Crabbe continued, moving to the paltry door. "He expects you in three-quarters of an hour."

He left then, slamming it shut behind him with a force that almost took it off his hinges, though a light breeze may have had the same effect, and Euphemia pulled her blanket closer to her chin.

"He's an awfully unattractive character," she remarked, with the kind of snap that would have made a man believe she wasn't a woman confined to a sickbed. "No wonder he's so brutish with you."

James jumped up from his knees. "You think?"

"Oh, I know so. Even in these peasant rags, you're so very handsome, and he looks like—"

"A troll?"

"I was going to say a boulder, but both are fairly misshapen." His mother patted the bed beside her. "Let me see your head."

"Head's fine."

"I didn't ask how it was doing, I asked to see it and form my own, correct opinion."

"Mum—"

"Don't make me crawl from this bed and spank you, boy."

She looked so determined that he almost thought she'd do it - regal, still, in a dowdy brown shift and her hair in tatters around her face - so he slouched over to her bed and perched beside her. Her hands moved immediately to the back of his head, where she parted his hair and sucked in an angry breath.

"Only a small cut, this time," she told him. "The way they hit you with those armoured fists—"

"I barely feel it."

"—when I'm fully recovered and get my hands on a wand—"

Were it possible, had James not considered and abandoned every single avenue across multiple nights spent staring at a cracked fireplace, wincing every time his sleeping mother groaned in pain, were Euphemia's legs not riddled with a mystifying hex that sent ugly black veins crisscrossing through her skin, a virus which spread further and further with each passing day, Snape's guards would have been wise if they chose to run screaming. Queen Euphemia was the most powerful witch that the kingdom of Gryffindor had seen in centuries.

Or at least, she had been. When she had been whole. When she'd had a wand. When she had been a queen, and her son a prince.

"Maybe I'll swipe one in the castle," he joked. "He can't have snapped them all."

His mother moved one hand to cup his cheek. "What do you think you're needed for?"

"Perhaps he's uncovered more gold to loot."

"That odious little snake."

"Unless he's finally found a way around the enchantments," said James thoughtfully. "And puts me out of my misery, finally."

Gryffindor had sat beneath the rule of House Potter for twelve generations, and the enchantments protecting the castle's walls and secrets were numerous. Only a Potter, or the spouse of one, could pass through certain doors, unlock vaults, reveal its hidden passages, move treasures from its stores without suffering grievous wounds. Snape had tried to circumvent it with a vial of King Fleamont's blood, but to no avail. A living, breathing, flesh-and-blood Potter, with a still-beating heart, was all the castle would accept.

So while Snape and his men struggled to break through the enchantments, they were keeping James alive, and while his mother languished beneath a hex that only Snape could lift or worsen, he was keeping James compliant.

"James." His mother's lips formed a hard line, with a flash of something painful in her lovely, hazel eyes. "Don't ever joke about that."

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I won't again."

He wished he had been joking.

Lord Corner made for the twenty-seventh failed attempt.

That seemed like rather a lot, as far as failed attempts went, but twenty-seven men across one solitary decade was quite a pitiful number, averaging at just under three a year, and nineteen of the lot had only shown up in the last two. An entrapped princess was less desirable, perhaps, before she came of age, when she could be a gasping, guileless virgin with the keys to a kingdom slipped between her quivering thighs.

Lily would have been a disappointment to all of them. She never gasped, she wasn't stupid, and she'd seen their faces when they ventured to her room and found her slumped on the floor with her chin on her chest, a book balanced against her (very sturdy) thighs, spitting apple pips across the floor. They seemed to expect to find her in a state of silken delicacy, embroidering a cushion, perhaps, or perched dramatically on the chaise lounge. Her room wasn't much, but it did, at least, boast some exquisite furnishings.

Mary hated when she spat pips, but Mary also allowed her some leeway when it came to her bad habits. Lily wasn't allowed to have windows, the least she could do was fashion projectiles from fruits.

The noble Lord Corner, the latest in a line of 'valiant knights' selected by Petunia to ride to her rescue, was particularly stupid, though his livery was ever so fine and well-maintained. Her sister must have laughed herself sick when he volunteered himself for the task, as if it wasn't clear as day that the queen would never send a man with the barest hint of a chance. Every one of them was stupid, really. They would blink when they found her, encased in a room with a wide-open door, entreating her to follow as if she were a skittish lamb, ignoring what she felt were plain-spoken statements like, "I physically can't leave," or, "no, I'm bound here by magic," or "seriously, you're going to die."

She didn't know how many assassins Petunia was wont to send, or how many exiles she'd hired to keep an eye on the castle, but they all died shortly after leaving, all twenty-six of them that came before the latest, one by unfortunate one. Mary, the only living creature permitted to come and go unharmed, reported on the bodies she'd found in the grounds of the castle, all in varying states of gory dismemberment. Some of them delayed their deaths by sticking around for an inordinately long time, refusing to accept that Lily could not leave. Sometimes, it was funny. Sometimes, the man was sweet, and Lily would feel bad for a spell when he left. Sometimes, she really didn't care.

It was getting harder and harder to care.

Corner had been one of the lingering ilk. He'd tried to pick her up and carry her out - they always mistook her small frame for weakness - and she'd become too weary of his company to resist. He'd been so shocked to find himself thrown back by an invisible force, allowed to leave the room only when he relinquished his hold on her, but Lily had merely rolled her eyes, and returned to her book.

"I told you," she'd said. "Don't get murdered on your way out."

She imagined that he'd last for a good ten minutes.

There were wands aplenty, and spell books, and his Invisibility Cloak, as well as a collection of magically-imbibed weapons, in the secret chamber that abutted his late father's study, but James couldn't get there without giving the guards the slip, and as he found himself chained between two whenever he drew near the castle grounds, that wasn't a viable option. Gryffindors weren't like the Ravenclaws of old, who were said to part rivers and fell trees with nothing but the flick of a finger, though that magic had long since ceased to exist. A Gryffindor needed his wand, or his magic had no proper channel.

Alternatively, James was almost as adept a swordsman as he was a wizard, but quite unlikely to find a rapier within his grasp.

Nor, on pain of death, would he let one Slytherin know of the room itself. He'd only be forced to open it, then watch as another collection of his family's treasures were ransacked beyond belief. The gold and jewels, he didn't mind losing. The wands were their only hope of salvation, and he'd take their location to his grave before he surrendered them to Snape.

The posturing, would-be king was reposing in the lounge – James's mother's private lounge, that had done nothing to deserve the touch of that monster's blood-leaden hands on the plump, scarlet cushions she had loved so much – when James was dragged in by the guards, examining his reflection in the back of a goblet. Obscene wealth did not become him, for he still had not learned how to wash his long, stringy, grease-soaked hair.

"Hark," said Snape, his beady eyes lighting with their usual, pathetic glee as James was brought before him. "If it isn't my old friend, the former crown prince of Gryffindor."

"Morning, Snivelly," said James, and a guard – Rosier, he thought – smacked the back of his legs with his longsword and sent him to his knees, which was fine, because they would have forced him down anyway. Snape went through this arduous process almost every day, apparently finding no end of joy in taunting his foe for having been stripped of his title. His guards were merely saving James from a long and boring victory speech.

"That's no way to talk to your king, Potter."

"Don't see my king here, Snivellus."

That was sure to earn him a beating, but to his surprise, Snape shook his head at Rosier when he stepped forward with his arm raised, his eyes moving back to find James's face, those ugly features of his twisted with revulsion.

"I don't have time to play games today," he told him. "I have a job I want you to do."

"It's not polishing the goblets, is it? Because that won't improve your reflection any."

"Speak to me like that again, and I'll have that werewolf friend of yours cut open from neck to groin," threatened Snape, his lip curling in a snarl. "The Wolfsbane Potion works quite well on his kind, of course, but imagine the advances we could make if we only had a beast upon which we could experiment."

James wanted, so badly, to throw back a retort – beast, indeed, as if there was a fouler beast than Snape himself – but Remus. Remus. He swallowed his anger, and his words, and tried to ignore the satisfied smile on Snape's loathsome face.

"Good," said his nemesis, and set down the goblet. "You've heard, I believe, of the lost princess of Ravenclaw?"

This abrupt change of subject threw him a little. Of course, he'd heard of the lost princess. Everyone had. The story of Princess Lily's abduction from the Ravenclaw palace, and the frantic efforts of Queen Petunia to find and bring her home, had become the stuff of legend since the halcyon days of James's childhood. To ask if James, a Gryffindor royal by blood, had heard of the girl, was an utterly stupid question, which Snape doubtless knew, but he didn't trust his mouth to behave when the anger he felt was so fresh in his veins still, so he nodded.

"Never met her, have you?" said Snape.

He recalled his father offering, when he was a wee chap of eight, but he'd been uninterested in venturing so far away from Sirius, and so the king had undertaken the journey alone. "No."

"I have," Snape continued, looking not at James now, but at a spot past his shoulder, his eyes growing soft and lurid with the recollection. "Many times, in my childhood. She was a remarkable girl, Lily was, even then. My father was in the process of brokering our engagement when she was taken. As you can imagine, I was devastated by the loss."

James wondered, for a moment, that Snape was taking the piss – but no, that was real emotion in his eyes, real longing in his voice as it lingered over her name, softer than a caress, utterly stomach-turning.

For the love of Merlin, the prat was in love with some girl he'd known a decade ago.

How pathetic. How utterly creepy.

The poor thing, he thought unbidden, if the alternative to being kidnapped was a life as Snape's bride, and perhaps Snape could tell what he was thinking, because he searched James's face with expectant eyes, obviously waiting for a disparaging remark, before he carried on with his story.

"She resides, now, in an abandoned castle in the Burned Lands, closer to Ravenclaw than here, quite heavily guarded, so I'm told, and about a fortnight's journey on foot, as you'll see from this map," he said, pulling a bound-up scroll from the folds of his robes and tossing it to James, where it landed several inches from his knees. "And you'll need to go on foot. Her sister insists that only a Ravenclaw may find her, lest a noble from any other kingdom try to use her title to stage a coup—"

"What?" said James sharply, so sharply, in fact, that Rosier almost drew his sword again. "What do you mean, go on foot?"

"I mean, we can't send an armed and mounted guard to fetch her," Snape continued, with a roll of his eyes. "Are you truly as slow as you look, Potter? Queen Petunia will have no choice but to approve the marriage once her sister is safely ensconced here, in the castle, but until then, she mustn't know that I'm attempting to find her. As a lone traveller, you will—"

"Are you mental?"

Snape's eyes flashed in anger. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not travelling to Merlin-knows-where in the Burned Lands to rescue some bloody princess—"

"You'll do as your told, Potter, or you'll find your pointless existence cut short—"

"So kill me, then," James countered. "And stop delaying the inevitable, but my place is with my mother until that moment, not poking through a crumbling old castle for the sake of your—"

"Goyle!" Snape commanded, and snapped his fingers. "Bring in the girl."

One of the guards holding James grunted at his master's order, dropped the chain connected to his captive's left wrist and departed the room, his footfall enormously heavy, even muffled by the plush, ruby carpet.

"Funny you should mention your mother," said Snape pleasantly. "I've got something that may change your mind."

Snape must have prepared for James's refusal, because Goyle returned immediately, dragging with him a tall, slender, brown-haired girl whom James knew from the kitchens, where often he had gone in search of snacks. Snape had killed many of his father's men and imprisoned many more – Remus and Sirius included – but had kept most of the household staff in his employ, once he'd deprived those with magic of their wands. Beatrice had been one of those with powers. She had been quick and sharp, ever ready with a witty remark, and cheerful, always cheerful.

She was utterly miserable now, one hand wrapped in a thick bandage, her eyes fixed determinedly upon her feet.

"You remember this young lady, I assume," said Snape. "She and I have spent a little time together of late – perhaps she could show our prince-turned-pauper what we've been working on."

With her lips pressed together, Beatrice unravelled the bandage from around her hand, which was oddly limp, tears building in her eyes now, wincing in pain when her fingers brushed against flesh, round and round until the bandage fell away, revealing a sight worse than foul, a sight James knew very well.

Veins. Hundreds of them. Black as night. Crisscrossed through her skin. Red, swollen, bulging flesh. The visceral memory of a putrid, rotting scent.

His stomach turned over.

"As you can see, she and your mother have something in common," Snape continued, his eyes lingering on her lifeless hand, savouring the sight of the work he had done. "A tricky little curse, that one, immensely slow to act, but deadly, once it touches the heart."

He made a movement, as if to jump to his feet, and Rosier yanked on the chain to bring him back to his knees. "You—"

"Observe," said Snape, and pulled a vial of some bright, green liquid from his robes.

Goyle grabbed Beatrice from behind, one hand grasping her pointed chin to force her lips apart, the other pulling her hair to tip back her head, and Snape was advancing, and she was screaming, struggling to escape, and James felt himself stumbling violently backwards - he must have tried to rush to her aid - and a smirking Snape tipped the contents of the vial directly down her throat.

For a moment, she stopped moving entirely, stiller than a corpse, and then her hand...

Her hand was fine.

"As I said, it's a tricky little curse," said Snape, while Beatrice staggered back, gaping at her brown, unblemished hand, her tears escaping in great, heaving gasps. "But easily cured, as you've seen. I'm willing to do the same for your mother, should you be willing to get me what I want."

It was everything James wanted, hoped for, wished for when he felt like wishing was fruitless, but there had to be a catch. A trap, somewhere, cleverly disguised as a sweeter prospect.

"You'd be willing to spare my mother," he said, weighing his words carefully. "My mother, the most powerful witch that Gryffindor has ever seen, for some girl—"

"The princess," said Snape coldly. "Is not some girl, but an exceedingly gifted young woman, and my rightful bride. Your mother is useless without a wand, which she won't get, but bring Princess Lily back to me and I'll give you her life, and yours, which you can share forever in some godforsaken shack far away from here, for all I care."

James shook his head. "I don't believe you."

"That's of no consequence to me, I can find someone else to rescue the princess, though goodness knows, there isn't a more expendable man in the kingdom."

"I wish you luck finding him."

"Though it seems selfish, of course - refusing me, when it spells certain death for your mother."

The bastard. He was worse than evil. Unspeakable.

And right, besides. Wise to James's weakness. Certain that he would never run, while his mother was incapable of walking. Sure that James would never forgive himself, had he found a chance to save his mother, and flagrantly ignored it.

"I'll need a sword," he said, after a moment.

Snape laughed, high and bitter. "You think I was born yesterday."

"Then woe betide your princess if we're set upon by bandits," he countered. "I can hardly protect her unarmed."

Snape chewed the inside of his cheek, his eyes flitting around the room, landing on one guard and then the other, but when he spoke again, it was with grim resignation.

"Fine," he said. "You will be escorted, by an armed procession, to a secure location, five miles outside the city gates, and given a sword—"

"A Gryffindor-forged sword?"

"—a sword of ordinary properties, as well as food and water enough to last you the journey."

"You're certain of that, are you?"

"As much as I would cherish an opportunity to watch you die, the safety of my future bride takes precedence."

"And my mother?"

"The kitchen girl has proven her worth," said Snape, nodding almost aimlessly at a still crying Beatrice. "She will care for your mother in your absence—"

"I'll know if my mother dies—"

"I'm quite aware of blood magic—"

"And if she does," said James warningly. "I'll find your bloody princess, and take her right back to her sister in Ravenclaw, as well as a full report of what you've been up to."

"You have my word that your mother's condition will not worsen in your absence."

"Your word's not worth much to me."

"Maybe not," Snape retorted. "But it's all you've got."

It meant nothing, truly. Less than nothing. The word of a snake. The promise of a betrayer. The assurance of a man who schemed and lied, and dealt in dirt and darkness.

But his mother. His mother. His mother.

He nodded.

Mary found her, some days after Lord Corner's visit, balanced precariously on her writing desk, with one bare foot held aloft behind her back.

"Again?" she sighed, with a baleful glance at an overturned stool that lay forlorn on the rug which, much like Lily's bedding and the hangings on the walls, were intricately embroidered in the Ravenclaw colours of blue and bronze. "I try so hard to keep this chamber tidy."

"Why? I'm not expecting company."

"You had company, three moons ago, I do believe."

"And what state did you find that company in, pray tell?"

"Sadly mangled."

"What a shame," said Lily tonelessly, and moved, leaping from the desk to the ottoman in one swift, graceful arch, landing again on one foot. "Man or beast?"

"Trolls, I think."

"And he had such a pretty face."

Mary clucked her tongue and flew, her wings beating like a hummingbird, swooping to right the fallen stool. "I wish you wouldn't talk so about your would-be rescuers—"

Lily took a breath to steady her impatience, and hopped down from the ottoman.

"—and I wish you wouldn't skulk about in your nightshirt. When did you last bathe?"

She pondered this question for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe when that lord was here?"

"Lily!"

"I got distracted by a book!"

"And by leaping childishly about the room like a toad, so it seems," said Mary sternly. "One of these days, when he arrives—"

"Oh, he indeed."

"—wouldn't you rather you looked presentable?"

"I'd rather I was able to hold my own against what lurks out there, should he ever arrive, which he won't," said Lily dryly. "Hence, the leaping. And anyway, if such a man exists, surely he's bound to find me delightful, even if I am unwashed and generally mangy?"

"Men aren't as sensitive to these things as we are."

"Then there's surely no point to any of them," said Lily, and dropped onto her bed.

Mary snapped her fingers, and in an instant, Lily found her long, tangled hair clean, shining, and gathered in a single, heavy braid that hung over one shoulder, and her body laced in a royal blue and ivory white gown befitting a Ravenclaw princess, one of many that Petunia found it prudent for her to own in her exile.

This was one of Mary's moves, and it was particularly cunning, because Lily's bodices were the tricky kind that she couldn't unlace herself, but being magically cleaned and dressed saved on the time it took to fill her tub and wash her hair. It was less of a punishment than the fairy supposed, though still an annoyance, all the same.

"My sister, Cara—" Mary began.

"Not this again."

"Lily," said Mary warningly. "Be respectful, please."

She wanted to retort, but it wasn't the fault of Mary that fairies were so annoyingly optimistic, none more so than their high queen, Cara, the fairy of tulips. Hope and laughter ran through their veins where other creatures would have blood.

So she buttoned her lip and assumed an air of contrition. "Sorry."

"She consulted with the centaurs of the Hufflepuff forests, and they believe your time is coming," Mary continued. "Cara herself has heard whispers from the flowers—"

"They've been whispering for quite some time."

"But never so much," said Mary kindly. "And never have the centaurs lent their assurances before. This is good news, princess."

Lily lifted her skirt and started to count the number of underskirts and petticoats that Mary had foisted upon her this time. "That's nice."

"It's better than nice, Lily."

"It's your way of making me bathe and brush my hair," said Lily sweetly. "Or your sister's right, and my soulmate's on his merry way to get me, but either way I've run out of apples. Did you bring any?"

Mary looked as if she wanted to speak further, but perhaps thought better of it, for her shoulders dropped and she let out a weighty sigh.

"Yes," she said, and turned in mid-air to glide towards the open door. "Apples and sweet plums, beef and vegetables for soup. I'll fetch them and make you some supper."

She flew out the door and vanished to the right, and Lily fell back amongst her pillows.

All curses could be broken - it was in their nature, Lily had learned in her endless nights of research - and though it must have enraged Petunia no end to know that her sister's captivity could never be entirely certain, she'd certainly chosen the worst of the lot from the warlocks she'd brought into her employ, for where could a girl find her soulmate, one man in a world of millions, in a room with no windows, and how could that soulmate find her, when Petunia was in charge of the choosing?

Her elder sister was wily, Lily would give her that. Fraught was the face Petunia had chosen to present to the world, so she had learned from the men who came to save her. They spoke of the plentiful tears of her sister, the grieving queen, who had been mourning the loss of her parents when a then nine-year-old Lily was so cruelly abducted from her bed, stolen away by angry exiles of the Burned Lands.

Her sister, who had arranged it all herself, no doubt believing she had shown Lily kindness by allowing her to live, one lonely prisoner in an elegant cell, unable to leave until, unless, she was lead out by the hand of her soulmate. Petunia had neglected to share that part with her valiant knights. All had believed that they only need find her, and to them would go the spoils.

So there Lily was. Stuck. Locked in a room with a magic bookcase and a trunk full of gowns, waiting for the whispers of tulips to prove themselves anything more than whispers, for the arrival of an impossible, nonexistent him.

Her soulmate. Her true love. Some handsome, curse-breaking hero.

As if.