Thorns between us

DIONNE’S POV I’m Dionne and yes I’m a witch. I wasn’t born with a warning label, but maybe I should’ve been. Bad luck follows me like a shadow. Not the dramatic kind with thunder and omens. The quiet kind. The kind that ruins lives slowly. Cups fall when I’m nervous. Candles blow out when I walk past. The baker’s boy breaks his arm the day I smile at him. The old woman on my street catches a fever the night I borrow sugar. People learned. They stopped inviting me to weddings. To births. To anything that mattered. I didn’t know why at first. I thought the world just hated me. It took me seventeen years to understand: the world wasn’t cruel. I was. I tried to be careful. I wore gloves. I didn’t touch people. I lived on the edge of the village where the houses were cheap and the neighbors kept their distance. My mother taught me one rule before she died: _“Don’t want anything too much. Wanting is when it slips.”_ So I didn’t want anything. Not until the invitations came. The palace sent them to every girl in the kingdom. Thick paper. Gold seal. “A ball,” the herald announced in the square. “To find the prince a wife.” Every girl. Even me. Especially me, because the law said so. I almost burned it. Bad luck and royalty don’t mix. That’s how kingdoms fall. But the dressmaker came to my door anyway. “It’s tradition,” she said, eyes not meeting mine. “You have to try it on.” The dress was borrowed. Pale blue silk, too big in the chest, too tight at the waist. I looked like a ghost trying to be a girl. I told myself I would stand in the corner. Drink water. Leave early. For one night I wanted to be normal. To wear silk. To dance. To not be the girl people crossed the street to avoid. The palace was too bright. Chandeliers like frozen stars. Music that made my teeth ache. A hundred girls in a hundred colors, all laughing, all hoping. I stayed by the wall. Until he found me. The prince. He wasn’t what I expected. No crown. No parade of guards. Just tired eyes and ink on his fingers like he’d been writing letters he didn’t send. “You look like you’re planning an escape,” he said. I startled and sloshed wine down the front of my dress. I braced for the flinch. For the polite excuse. He just laughed. Low and warm. And held out a handkerchief. “Here. Before the silk stains.” “Thank you,” I whispered. “I’m—” “I know who you are,” I cut in, too fast. He smiled anyway. “And you are?” “No one.” “Then dance with no one.” I should’ve said no. I did anyway. We danced once. Then twice. Then a third time because the song hadn’t ended and neither had he. He didn’t ask about my family. He didn’t ask why my hands shook. He told me about the library in the east tower and how he hated speeches and how the palace bread was always stale. By midnight, the room had narrowed to just us. The other girls watched. Some with envy. Some with pity. I was going to be chosen. The thought was terrifying and sweet and stupid. He loved me. I think I loved him too. For a few hours, I let myself believe the bad luck had paused. That maybe my mother was wrong. And then it happened. It started in my chest. A flicker. A crackle under my skin like lightning looking for ground. I’d felt it before. Right before a roof collapsed. Right before a carriage wheel snapped. “Are you alright?” the prince asked, frowning. I tried to smile. “Fine.” The chandeliers dimmed. The music hitched. Someone dropped a glass. “Don’t,” I whispered. To myself. To it. _Don’t._ But magic like mine doesn’t listen. It never asked permission. Heat shot down my arms. My vision went white at the edges. I didn’t see what I did. I didn’t feel it. One second the prince was smiling at me, his hand warm in mine. And the next— He was on the floor. Cold. Still. His eyes open, but not seeing me. A thin line of blood at the corner of his mouth. The room went silent. A hundred faces stared at me. Accusing. Terrified. Someone screamed. Then another. Before I could breathe, before I could explain, before I could even reach for him, the guards were on me. Cold iron around my wrists. It burned. Not like fire. Like truth. “Move,” one of them growled, yanking me up. I tried to say his name. Tried to say _it wasn’t me_. _It was an accident_. But my throat closed up. Because what if it was me? They dragged me past the dancers, past the spilled wine, past the prince’s body now covered with a gold cloth. I saw his hand sticking out. Still. I made a sound that wasn’t a word. Outside, the night air hit me like a slap. Torches lined the courtyard. Word had already spread faster than we ran. People were throwing things. Rotten fruit. Stones. Curses. “Witch!” “Murderer!” “Burn her!” The captain of the guard announced it loud enough for the whole kingdom to hear: “The charge? Murder of the crown prince.” I wanted to laugh. It was so absurd. I, who couldn’t keep a plant alive, had killed a prince. I wanted to cry. Because he was dead and it was my fault. The dungeon doors were oak, banded with iron. They slammed behind me and the sound echoed in my bones. Stone. Cold. Dark. The guards stripped the chains once and replaced them with heavier ones. Then they left me. For the first time in my life, it was quiet. No music. No whispers. No heartbeat that wasn’t mine. Too quiet. I slid down the wall until my knees hit the floor. “I didn’t mean to,” I said to the dark. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” And that’s when I heard it. Not from outside. Not from a guard. From inside me. Soft. Familiar. Amused. _“Hello again, killer.”_ I jerked. “Who—” _“You know who.”_ It was my voice. But not mine. Deeper. Older. Tired of pretending. My powers. The thing my mother made me bury. The thing that killed without asking me. The thing that made cups fall and boys break and now... princes die. _“Took you long enough to notice us,”_ it said. “I didn’t—” _“You did. The second his heart stopped, you felt it. That little click. Like a lock opening.”_ I pressed my hands to my ears. The iron screamed against my skin. “Get out.” _“Can’t. I live here.”_ A pause. Then a laugh, quiet and delighted, like it had been waiting years in the dark of my own head. _“Hello again, killer.”_