Stolen Midnights

Chapter One

Wren

Magic is in our blood. It is our birthright.

—­Aurilian decree

When the clock chimed midnight on an Aurilian’s eighteenth birthday, a remarkable and utterly beguiling event would occur.

For the blessed—­deemed such by the almighty Fates—­a gift would be delivered.

It could be a tarnished pair of earrings or a plain silk ribbon. A polished pocket watch might appear, a mottled hand mirror, an empty picture frame. Yet these were no ordinary gifts; not the unimpressive celebratory trinkets they seemed to be.

They were born of magic. Gifted to the most faithful and highest-­ranking members of Aurilian society in the capital city of Andalay by the three Fates that walked among us—­Dawn, Day, and Dusk—­and presented by their loyal onyx hounds in a simple blue box.

On my walks through the market with Mother I’d linger to gaze upon the three towers belonging to the Fates’ palace. My heart leapt at the sight of the crystalline spires and dusty-­pink marble, how those walls reminded me of clouds settling below a summer sunset sky. The Fates were untouchable behind their fortress in the heart of the north, yet our world spun around them, their ethereal home a reminder to trust in their guidance.

Tonight, I would finally join my father, mother, and sister; the Hayes family had never not received a gift, and soon, it was expected I’d assume my rightful place among my powerful family.

I paced before the ornate grandfather clock in our parlor, my heavy pale pink skirts swishing about my feet. The luxurious satin produced a grating sound with each step, but I couldn’t stop; my time was almost here.

I prayed that one day I’d be fortunate like my mother. Not only did she receive her gift, but she was one of the rare few spoken to by a Fate. On her thirtieth birthday, the elusive Dusk had pulled her aside during a grand party. They spoke for but a minute, and while many harassed her for details after Dusk departed, Mother remained adamant that the words were for her, and for her alone to know. She hadn’t even told Father.

A shiver ran down my spine at the thought of being alone with one of the ancient beings whose magic coursed throughout the realm; through each flower to every gust of wind.

Maybe I’d get lucky too, though the thought intimidated.

Eighteen. Whether or not I would be favored like my mother, I was still turning eighteen at midnight, and my magic would arrive. I would arrive.

I had to maintain faith that all my years of prayer and loyalty hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Settle down, Wren,” Father barked from his brocade armchair, a glass of brandy cradled in his palms. His bushy gray mustache wrinkled as I ignored him, shooting off for the other side of the room. I eyed our ancestors’ portraits hanging on the forest-­green walls and scowled at the way their serious faces were forever frozen in dis­appointment.

An entire line of Hayeses that I had to live up to. Favorites of the Fates, society argued. Blessed.

“One more minute,” I mumbled, sneaking an impatient glance at my mother, Lenore, who looked appallingly bored sprawled across the velvet chaise. She, too, held a glass of liquor in her dainty hands, her fingers covered in rings of rubies and diamonds. She was elegant, my mother, stunning in a way no one had likened me to. The only trait I possessed of hers was her eye color, which was a bright turquoise shade that had been the admiration of her earlier suitors before my father, Cameron Hayes, had swept her off her feet. While her hair was bright and golden, mine was a deeper caramel color and, she complained, was incessantly tangled and wild. My nose wasn’t upturned and effortlessly regal like hers, and my lips weren’t half as full and lush. I’d heard the petty gossipers whispering away during our dinner parties, murmuring what a shame it was that I didn’t possess her delicate beauty.

But there were much greater things to achieve in life than idle beauty. And I liked my reflection just fine.

Father grumbled, the shine of his magicked pen catching the glint of the firelight. That fountain pen held immense power, a way to convince the recipients of his letters of almost anything.

The gift of persuasion. It was the reason we lived in our three-­story brick mansion in the swanky center of Andalay—­the capital of Aurilia—­and the reason he was the entrusted Representative of Ward One. With a simple vial of ink, he swayed politicians and society members alike, his words captured on paper more potent than any partisan speech. Or the actual king in the western lands, for that matter. Not that the royals had much authority in the east.

I envied such an ability. The control—­how wonderfully devious Father must feel being able to hold such influence with the flick of a wrist. True freedom—­that’s what it represented, and after a lifetime of boredom and pretending to be the perfect well-­bred daughter, I desired any and all excuses to be exceptional. To be me . . . but without constraints.

Mother, on the other hand, had been granted a pair of cornflower-­blue silk slippers. She barely wore them—­the prize kept on a high shelf in her armoire. They weren’t as impressive as Father’s pen, but when she chose to don them for the season’s exclusive events, she rivaled any professional dancer on the floor. Once upon a time, she’d been renowned, a famed performer who was welcome in any fine theater or hall. As the years wore on, society had inevitably shifted its focus to the young and spry; bright new faces that people admired from afar. I didn’t think she’d ever gotten over being pushed off the stage.

A small part of me felt sorrow for her. If she hadn’t been so aloof, so prickly, that part might’ve been larger. Maybe we’d be closer once I became blessed . . . I had to hope. Our relationship couldn’t get any more strained.

“Miss me?”

Callie swept into the room on light feet, her long, curled black hair swinging at her waist as she swayed her hips. My older sister by two years was a sight—­a rare beauty—­and my closest confidante.

I wanted to run into her arms.

“Always,” I admitted with a playful eye roll, not breaking stride during my ceaseless march across the parlor.

“Don’t sass me, little bird.” Callie fell into a chair beside Father, her blue dress crinkling with the movement. She made a point to touch her simple silver earrings, a brow raised.

Her gift. With those earrings alone, she owned the ability to control people’s emotions, sometimes bringing out the deepest, most buried feelings within her targets.

A glorious gift if I’d ever seen one. Father had been over the moon when she received her magic.

I, however, had been her victim many times in the past, especially when she wanted the last word in an argument. She had since ceased to use her influence on me unless requested—­like when my nerves buzzed in my chest like angry bees. But it was a rare occasion when I asked for her to turn her steely gaze upon me, her finger pressed against the enchanted metal.

“Don’t threaten me, Callie, or I’ll use my new gift on you,” I warned, a proud smirk lifting my lips. Yes, perhaps she’d get a taste of her own medicine.

Callie laughed, the sound airy and unbothered. “Oh, sister. Let’s wait to threaten each other until after you get your gift, eh?”

I gave her a withering look. One she returned.

Without Callie, I swore I’d die of boredom.

“Thirty seconds, little bird,” she mused, drawing my attention back to the clock.

I swallowed a curse. I was seconds from wearing down the wooden planks of the parlor floor, which would be a shame, as it had been polished that morning. The clock would chime and then the front door would mysteriously open, and one of the Fates’ beloved hounds would come barreling in, my gift bared between his sharp teeth.

“Cameron, please tell her to cease all this . . . movement,” Mother commanded, idly waving a hand. Some of her brandy sloshed over the rim and onto her overly bright red dress. “She’s giving me a headache.” She turned to Callie as if for support. My sister didn’t indulge her, staring into the hearth instead with a smirk on her face.

I sighed. I was always giving Mother a headache.

“That would be the drink, my dear,” Father replied, straining to keep his smile hidden. “And we all know she won’t stop until—­”

The first gong sounded.

I went utterly still, the breath knocked from my lungs. Excitement slithered up my spine, the kind that preceded a life-­changing moment.

Midnight approached.