Different Worlds

CHAPTER 4: THE LIFE

Snow pressed against the tall windows of the keep.

It gathered along the ledges in thick white ridges, filling the corners of the glass until the outside world looked blurred and distant. Frost spread across the lower panes in delicate patterns, like pale branches reaching toward the warmth inside.

The old keep appeared colder than it truly was.

Within its stone walls, fires burned in iron baskets. Their heat moved slowly through the corridors, softened by thick rugs and heavy tapestries. Servants passed quietly beneath the vaulted ceilings, carrying baskets of bread, folded linens, buckets of coal, and armfuls of freshly cut wood.

The keep had the rhythm of something ancient.

Something that had survived too many winters to be impressed by another.

Fay walked through the winter gallery with a stack of folded clothes balanced against her chest.

She wore a borrowed wool dress that was far too long. The hem dragged against the floor, and she had pinned the waist twice in an attempt to keep the garment from swallowing her. The sleeves covered most of her hands.

She had been given better clothing than the clothes she had arrived in, but that did not mean the dress fit.

Or that she liked it.

As she passed beneath a row of narrow windows, two court ladies approached from the opposite direction. Both wore layered gowns in deep shades of blue and silver. Their hair had been arranged carefully, and their footsteps made almost no sound against the polished stone.

They were whispering.

Not quietly enough.

“That’s her,” one of them said.

“The one from the tunnel,” the other replied.

“She has no house.”

“Everyone has a house.”

Fay slowed.

The women slowed too.

For a moment, the three of them stood in the middle of the gallery while snow moved silently beyond the windows.

Fay looked down at the dress hanging awkwardly from her body.

Then she looked back at the women.

“Apparently,” she said, “I misplaced mine.”

The court ladies stared at her.

Neither seemed to know whether she had made a joke or committed an offense.

Fay waited for a response.

When none came, she adjusted the clothes in her arms and continued down the gallery.

Behind her, the women began whispering again.

Fay did not turn around.

At the end of the gallery, she rounded a corner—

—and nearly walked directly into Ethan.

He stood in the passage with an armful of firewood pressed against his chest.

King or no king, he looked like a man who had been doing his own work for most of his life.

His sleeves were rolled to his forearms. A few strands of dark hair had fallen loose near his temple, and a thin layer of dust clung to the side of his coat.

Fay looked from the firewood to his face.

“Do kings usually carry firewood?”

Ethan glanced down at the logs.

“Only when servants are watching.”

Fay looked behind him.

The corridor was empty.

“No one is watching.”

“Then I suppose you’ve caught me.”

One of the logs shifted in his arms.

Before he could adjust it, Fay moved the folded clothes to one arm and took a piece of firewood from the top of his stack.

Ethan looked at her.

“You don’t have to.”

“Neither do you.”

For a moment, he seemed prepared to argue.

Then he said nothing.

They began walking together.

Their footsteps echoed softly through the gallery.

The silence between them was comfortable.

That surprised Fay.

It seemed to surprise Ethan too.

────────

The kitchen was enormous.

It occupied nearly an entire wing of the keep, with high ceilings darkened by years of smoke and rows of windows that let in the pale morning light. Fires burned beneath iron pots large enough to bathe a child in. Steam drifted through the air, carrying the scents of roasting meat, onions, herbs, fresh bread, and something sweet baking near the rear ovens.

Knives struck cutting boards.

Pots clanged.

Servants hurried between worktables carrying baskets of vegetables and trays of food.

People shouted across the room without ever seeming to stop working.

The moment Ethan entered, several heads turned.

The moment Fay entered behind him, nearly every head turned.

The cook stood near the largest hearth.

She was a broad woman in her sixties, with silver threaded through her hair and arms that looked as though they had been carved from tree roots. Her sleeves were rolled past her elbows, revealing strong forearms marked by old burns and pale scars.

She pointed at Fay.

“You’re late.”

Fay stopped.

“For what?”

“Breakfast.”

“I didn’t know I had breakfast.”

The cook stared at her as though she had just announced that she did not understand the purpose of breathing.

“Everyone has breakfast.”

Before Fay could respond, the cook shoved a bowl into her hands.

The bowl was warm enough to heat her fingers.

Fay looked at Ethan.

He nodded solemnly.

“She’s right.”

Fay narrowed her eyes.

“You’re the king.”

“Unfortunately.”

The cook reached past Fay, picked up a loaf of bread, and began cutting it with a heavy knife.

Ethan extended a hand toward the loaf.

The cook slapped it away without looking at him.

“And you’re late too.”

Ethan withdrew his hand.

“I’m the king.”

“Then the king can wait.”

A laugh escaped Fay before she could stop it.

It was small at first, little more than a breath of amusement.

Then it grew.

Ethan turned toward her.

He looked startled.

Fay realized she had never laughed in front of him before.

Not properly.

Not like this.

A smile slowly appeared on his face.

The cook noticed.

Her eyes moved from Fay to Ethan, then back again.

She said nothing.

But she saw it.

She saw the way Ethan looked at Fay.

She saw the way Fay’s shoulders had relaxed.

And she saw the way the king, who could silence an entire council with one glance, stood patiently waiting for a piece of bread.

────────

By midday, the snow had thickened.

The council chamber smelled of wax, parchment, and burning wood.

A large map covered the table at the center of the room. Mountains were drawn in jagged black lines. Rivers wound through valleys marked in blue ink. Borders had been painted in different colors, some bright and new, others faded by time.

Several councilmen stood around the table.

Ethan sat at the head.

Thomas stood near the window, holding a ledger against his side.

He was younger than Ethan, though the years had already begun to sharpen him. His clothing was perfectly arranged. His hair was neatly tied back. He stood with the stillness of a man who had trained himself never to reveal discomfort.

Everything about Thomas was precise.

His words.

His posture.

His expression.

Especially his expression.

“The northern houses want an answer,” Councilman One said.

Ethan did not look up from the map.

“They have one.”

“They want your answer.”

“They’ll survive the disappointment.”

A few of the men smiled.

Thomas did not.

He continued looking toward the snowy window.

“They are not asking about the northern road,” he said.

Ethan’s hand stopped over the map.

He looked up.

Thomas turned from the window.

“They’re asking about the girl.”

Silence settled over the chamber.

Ethan leaned back in his chair.

“Her name is Fay.”

“Yes.”

“Then use it.”

Thomas lowered his eyes to the ledger.

“There is no house attached to it.”

“I know.”

“There is no father recorded.”

“I know.”

“No mother. No land. No banner. No recognized bloodline.”

“I know, Thomas.”

Thomas closed the ledger.

The sound was soft, but it seemed to carry through the entire room.

“Then the question remains.”

Ethan studied him.

“What question?”

Thomas’s gaze lifted.

“What does the crown intend to do with her?”

Ethan sat back.

“The crown intends to let her eat breakfast.”

Thomas did not smile.

Ethan picked up a piece of parchment and examined it with exaggerated seriousness.

“Try it sometime.”

The room remained quiet.

Thomas looked at him for a long moment.

Then he turned and left.

Ethan watched him go.

Only after the door closed did he look back at the councilmen.

“Anyone else?”

No one spoke.

────────

That evening, Fay sat beside the window in her guest chamber.

Snow drifted through the darkness beyond the glass.

She had been in the keep long enough to understand some things.

She knew which bells announced meals and which ones summoned the guards.

She knew which corridors led to the kitchens, the library, the stables, and the great hall.

She knew which staircases seemed to lead nowhere.

She knew which servants would answer her questions and which ones would suddenly become very busy whenever she mentioned the door.

She knew that the guards changed at the same hours every day.

She knew that Ethan rarely slept as much as he claimed.

She knew that the court still whispered about her.

And she knew that whenever someone said the word house, the room seemed to grow colder.

A knock sounded at the door.

Fay turned from the window.

“Come in.”

Ethan entered carrying a small wooden box.

It was dark with age, its corners worn smooth from years of handling. A narrow metal clasp held it shut.

Fay looked at it.

“What’s that?”

“Something that belonged to my father.”

The mention of his father changed the air between them.

Ethan crossed the room and placed the box on the table.

“I thought you should see it.”

Fay approached.

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to ask anyway.”

She looked up at him.

“You’re learning me.”

“I’m trying.”

Their eyes met.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Something almost began between them.

Something quiet and uncertain.

Then Fay looked back at the box.

She opened the clasp.

Inside, resting on a square of faded cloth, was a small iron key.

It was old and blackened, its surface worn smooth in places by years of use. The teeth were uneven. A thin line of rust colored one edge.

Fay picked it up.

“What does it open?”

“Nothing anymore.”

She looked at him.

“That’s reassuring.”

Ethan leaned against the edge of the table.

“My father carried it the day he disappeared.”

Fay’s fingers tightened around the key.

“Disappeared where?”

Ethan did not answer immediately.

Outside, wind moved across the windows, dragging a faint hiss through the room.

“Through a door,” he said at last.

The chamber seemed to grow colder.

Fay lowered her gaze to the key.

“Like mine?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I was twelve.”

“And he never came back.”

“No.”

Fay turned the key over in her hand.

The iron was cold against her palm.

“Maybe he did.”

Ethan’s expression changed slightly.

“Maybe.”

A long silence followed.

Fay looked at the key again.

Then at him.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’re going to ask anyway.”

“You already said that.”

“I know.”

She gave him a suspicious look.

He almost smiled.

Fay placed the key back inside the box.

“Do you think he’s still alive?”

Ethan looked toward the window.

“I don’t know.”

“You say that a lot.”

“It’s an honest answer.”

“It’s an irritating one.”

“I’ve been told.”

Fay closed the box.

The quiet between them returned.

This time, it felt different.

Less guarded.

More fragile.

Then a bell rang somewhere below.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Ethan glanced toward the door.

“Dinner.”

Fay sighed.

“Very romantic.”

“I had planned something better.”

“What?”

“Bread.”

She smiled.

He smiled back.

Then he picked up the box and carried it toward the door.

Fay watched him go.

For reasons she could not explain, the sound of his footsteps leaving made the room feel emptier than it had before.

────────

The first year passed slowly at first.

Then all at once.

Fay learned the palace in pieces.

She learned the rhythm of its mornings, when the keep woke beneath a sky that was often white with snow. She learned the smell of the kitchens before dawn and the way the stone corridors held the cold long after the fires had been lit.

She learned that the keep was never truly silent.

There was always something moving behind the walls.

A servant carrying water.

A guard changing posts.

A child laughing in a distant courtyard.

A door opening somewhere below.

A bell sounding from a tower.

She learned that the old stones remembered footsteps.

And she learned that Ethan could identify nearly every mountain surrounding Avelor without looking at a map.

One morning, he stood beside her in the western gallery and pointed toward the distant peaks.

“That one is Mount Veyr.”

Fay followed his finger.

The mountain rose beyond the valley, its upper slopes covered in snow.

“And that one?”

“Mount Carren.”

“And the one behind it?”

“The northern ridge.”

“That isn’t a name.”

“It is what we call it.”

“Very creative.”

Ethan glanced at her.

“You’re welcome to name it yourself.”

“Fine. I name it Susan.”

He stared at her.

“Susan?”

“It looks like a Susan.”

Ethan turned back toward the window.

“I’m beginning to regret teaching you anything.”

“You’re the one who started.”

────────

Fay taught Ethan how to use a modern flashlight.

It happened in the library after sunset.

She had found the flashlight at the bottom of her bag, wedged beneath a notebook and a packet of tissues. The batteries were nearly dead, but when she pressed the button, a thin beam of light appeared.

Ethan watched it with open suspicion.

He turned the flashlight over in his hands.

“There’s no flame.”

“That’s the point.”

“Then why does it shine?”

“Electricity.”

He looked at her.

“What is electricity?”

Fay paused.

She had never considered how difficult it might be to explain something she had always taken for granted.

“It’s complicated.”

Ethan examined the flashlight again.

“Convenient.”

“It’s useful.”

“Most complicated things are.”

He pressed the button.

The beam disappeared.

He pressed it again.

It returned.

Ethan’s expression tightened.

“Is it alive?”

Fay laughed.

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“You were certain about the door too.”

The laughter faded.

Ethan noticed.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Fay reached out and took the flashlight from him.

“It runs on batteries.”

“What are batteries?”

She looked at the device in her hand.

“Also complicated.”

Ethan nodded gravely.

“Convenient.”

────────

Fay discovered the palace laundry by accident.

She had been searching for a servant who could help her repair the hem of her dress when she found herself in a long, warm room filled with steam and the smell of soap.

Sheets hung from wooden frames.

Clothes were folded into neat piles.

Women moved between tubs and tables, talking as they worked.

Fay had never seen so much linen in one place.

A servant handed her a sheet.

Fay attempted to fold it.

The result was a tangled, lopsided mess.

Ethan appeared in the doorway just as she was trying to force one corner into place.

He watched for several seconds.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Fay looked up.

“Do you want to do it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then be quiet.”

Ethan folded his arms.

Fay tried again.

The sheet slipped from her hands and landed across her head.

A nearby servant covered her mouth to hide a laugh.

Ethan’s mouth twitched.

Fay pulled the sheet away.

“You’re smiling.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I would never.”

The sheet fell off the table.

Ethan bent down to retrieve it.

Fay watched him.

“You know, for a king, you spend a lot of time doing things you claim you don’t have to do.”

Ethan handed her the sheet.

“For a woman who claims she doesn’t belong here, you spend a lot of time telling me what to do.”

She took the sheet.

“Someone has to.”

────────

When spring came, Fay learned to ride.

The first attempt lasted less than ten minutes.

The horse was a calm gray mare named Bell, but Fay distrusted her immediately.

Bell seemed to know it.

“She doesn’t like me,” Fay said.

“She doesn’t know you.”

“She’s judging me.”

“She’s a horse.”

“That’s not a denial.”

Ethan stood beside the animal, holding the reins.

Fay placed one foot in the stirrup and tried to climb into the saddle.

The horse shifted.

Fay froze.

“Did you feel that?”

“Yes.”

“She moved.”

“She is allowed to.”

“I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You said you wanted to learn.”

“I wanted to understand the concept.”

Ethan looked up at her.

“Fay.”

“What?”

“Get on the horse.”

She did.

For approximately three seconds, she sat upright.

Then Bell took one slow step forward.

Fay made a startled sound and grabbed the saddle horn.

“Ethan.”

“I’m here.”

“Don’t let her move.”

“She’s already moving.”

“Make her stop.”

“Use the reins.”

“I don’t know how.”

Ethan caught the reins before Bell could take another step.

Fay’s foot slipped from the stirrup.

She fell sideways.

Ethan caught her around the waist before she reached the ground.

For a moment, she hung against him, one hand gripping his shoulder.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

Then he smiled.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re smiling.”

“That’s different.”

She pushed away from him.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Only a little.”

Fay pointed at him.

“I will learn.”

“I know.”

“And when I do, I’m going to ride past you very quickly.”

“I’ll be terrified.”

“You should be.”

────────

Winter became spring.

Spring became summer.

The keep changed with the seasons.

Snow melted from the rooftops and filled the channels beneath the walls. Flowers appeared in the gardens. The valley turned green. The river swelled with mountain water and flashed silver beneath the sun.

Fay’s borrowed dresses became less borrowed.

Her place at the table became less uncertain.

She began to recognize the names of the people who worked in the keep. She learned which servants had children, which guards were married, and which cooks would quietly send extra food to anyone who looked sad.

She learned how to navigate court dinners without accidentally insulting anyone.

Mostly.

She learned where to stand during ceremonies.

She learned how to hold a cup without looking as though she wanted to throw it.

She learned that some nobles were kind when no one was watching and cruel when everyone was.

She learned that others were cruel in private and polite in public.

And she learned that Ethan could become a different man whenever he stepped into a room full of people who expected him to be king.

At public feasts, he was controlled and commanding.

In council meetings, he was sharp enough to draw blood.

In the kitchens, he was frequently hungry and frequently scolded.

With Fay, he was becoming something else.

Something neither of them had named.

One summer evening, Fay stood beside him at a public feast in the lower courtyard.

Lanterns hung from the trees.

Music drifted across the grass.

Servants carried platters of food between long tables while nobles laughed beneath colored banners.

Fay had no idea where to put her hands.

She kept clasping them in front of her, then moving them behind her back, then folding them across her stomach.

Ethan noticed.

Without saying anything, he reached over and took one of her hands.

Fay looked at him.

He did not let go.

He continued watching the musicians as though nothing had happened.

But his thumb moved slowly across the back of her hand.

Fay turned toward the courtyard.

She did not pull away.

────────

By the time the garden trees began to flower, the court had grown used to seeing Fay beside Ethan.

Used to her strange clothing.

Used to her sharp answers.

Used to the fact that she did not bow deeply enough, speak softly enough, or pretend to understand rules that made no sense to her.

They had not accepted her.

Not entirely.

But they had begun to account for her.

That afternoon, Fay walked among the flowering trees in the eastern garden.

Petals drifted across the paths. The air smelled of damp earth and new leaves. Bees moved lazily among the blossoms, and somewhere beyond the garden wall, a bird sang from the branches of an unseen tree.

Fay heard footsteps behind her.

She did not turn.

“You followed me.”

Ethan’s voice came from a few paces away.

“I was walking.”

“In the same direction?”

“Coincidence.”

Fay glanced over her shoulder.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a king.”

“That’s not a defense.”

“It has worked before.”

“On people who are afraid of you.”

Ethan moved beside her.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“No.”

He considered that.

“Perhaps I should work on my reputation.”

“You could start by being less suspicious.”

“I’m not suspicious.”

“You brought a sword to a garden.”

“I always carry a sword.”

“Exactly.”

They walked beneath the flowering trees.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Fay asked, “Do they still talk about me?”

“Yes.”

“What do they say?”

“Mostly that you’re trouble.”

Fay nodded.

“That sounds accurate.”

“And that you’re ungrateful.”

“That sounds less accurate.”

“And that you ask too many questions.”

“That sounds very accurate.”

Ethan glanced at her.

“What do you want me to say?”

Fay looked ahead.

“What do you say?”

“Mostly that they’re correct.”

She nudged him with her shoulder.

Ethan gave a dramatic grunt.

“Ow.”

“That wasn’t hard.”

“Kings are delicate.”

“You carried firewood yesterday.”

“A moment of madness.”

They continued until they reached a broad tree whose branches spread over a bench of pale stone.

Ethan stopped.

“Fay.”

She turned toward him.

His expression had changed.

The humor was gone.

“You know you can leave.”

The words landed differently than he intended.

Fay stared at him.

For a moment, she could not tell whether he was offering her freedom or asking her to take it.

“Do you want me to?”

Ethan’s jaw tightened.

“No.”

“Then don’t say that.”

“I needed you to know.”

“I know.”

The wind moved through the branches overhead.

A few petals fell between them.

Fay looked down at their hands.

Then she reached for his.

Ethan let her take it.

Their fingers closed together.

Neither of them spoke.

────────

The ceremony took place in the throne hall several weeks later.

The room was filled with people.

Nobles stood along the walls in formal clothing. Guards lined the steps leading to the throne. Priests gathered beneath the high arches, their robes falling in dark folds around their feet.

Fay stood beside Ethan.

The court watched her.

She could feel their eyes on her skin.

The Old Steward stood before the throne with the Book of Houses open in his hands.

The book looked older than ever.

Its leather cover had been polished, but the pages remained yellowed and brittle. Black wax marked several entries. The air smelled faintly of smoke and dust.

The Steward cleared his throat.

“Fay.”

Her name echoed through the hall.

A pause followed.

Then he continued.

“No house.”

Whispers moved through the crowd.

Fay’s shoulders tightened.

The Steward looked down at the book.

“No registered bloodline.”

The whispers grew louder.

Ethan’s jaw hardened.

“Enough.”

The word cut through the room.

The murmurs died.

The Steward looked up.

Ethan stepped forward.

“She stands beside me.”

The statement was simple.

It was not a declaration of ownership.

It was not a legal claim.

But it carried the weight of both.

The Steward studied him.

“For now,” he said.

Ethan’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s enough.”

The Steward lowered his gaze.

The ceremony continued, but Fay heard very little of it.

She could feel Ethan standing beside her.

She could feel the warmth of his arm near hers.

She was grateful.

More grateful than she could explain.

But beneath that gratitude was something else.

Fear.

Because she had begun to understand that standing beside the king was not the same as belonging.

And being protected was not the same as being safe.

────────

That night, Fay slept in Ethan’s chamber.

The fire had burned low.

Beyond the windows, the keep was quiet beneath a clear sky. Moonlight spilled across the floor in narrow silver bands.

Fay slept on her side, her face turned toward him.

Ethan lay awake.

He watched her breathe.

She shifted beneath the blankets, one hand moving across the pillow.

Ethan reached toward her.

Then stopped.

His hand remained suspended in the darkness.

After a moment, he lowered it.

On the bedside table sat the old iron key.

He looked at it.

Then at Fay.

A faint sound came from the corridor.

Three knocks.

Ethan sat upright.

He waited.

Silence followed.

He got out of bed.

The stone floor was cold beneath his feet.

He crossed the room and opened the door.

The corridor was empty.

Torches burned low along the walls.

The keep seemed to be holding its breath.

At the far end of the passage stood an ancient wooden door.

Ethan froze.

It was made of dark, weathered wood. Its surface was scarred with long marks, and a heavy iron ring hung at its center.

It looked like the door Fay had described.

The one beneath the city.

The one that had taken her from her world.

Ethan moved toward it.

Each step seemed to carry him farther from the chamber behind him.

When he reached the door, he raised one hand and touched the wood.

It was cold.

Not ordinary cold.

The kind that seemed to move beneath the skin.

Ethan gripped the iron ring.

He turned it.

The mechanism resisted.

Locked.

Behind him, Fay’s voice broke the silence.

“Ethan?”

He turned.

The door was gone.

There was only a stretch of ordinary stone wall.

Fay stood in the doorway of the chamber, wrapped in a blanket.

Her eyes moved from him to the wall.

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You looked frightened.”

“I wasn’t.”

Fay stared at him.

“Another terrible lie.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“Go back to bed.”

“Only if you come with me.”

Ethan looked toward the empty wall.

Then back at her.

“All right.”

He followed her into the chamber.

Neither of them slept.