The Prince Keeps My Worst Wish

How it begins

Prince Corvin kept Ysra's worst wish in the pocket where other men carried a handkerchief.

He unfolded it on her workbench.

The paper had aged. Her handwriting had not improved in memory.

Let me meet one person who cannot be charmed.

Ysra sat down.

“I was twenty-three.”

“I gathered you had reconsidered.”

“Frequently.”

The prince looked nothing like his portraits. Or rather, he looked exactly like them without the useful illusion that a beautiful face must belong to a person one ought to admire.

There was a tiredness around his mouth. His left cuff was frayed. He watched her tools with genuine curiosity instead of pretending to understand their purpose.

“How did you get this?”

“Someone decided a royal heir should be immune to manipulation.”

“And chose my wish?”

“Cheaply, I suspect.”

Outside the shop, a cart rattled over the paving stones. Ysra had repaired wishes for eleven years. Rain at a convenient hour. A rival's misplaced tongue. One memorable request for an honest mirror that had ruined a furniture dealer's winter.

She had never been asked to mend a life attached to her own words.

Corvin placed a royal instruction beside the wish.

Restore the prince's natural capacity to inspire devotion.

“Is that what you want?” she asked.

“No.”

She read the instruction again.

“The fee would keep this shop open.”

“I know.”

He said it without accusation. That made the decision less comfortable.

Ysra touched the old paper. Beneath her fingers, a faint gold line appeared, running from the ink toward his wrist.

Corvin did not move closer.

“If you cut it,” he asked, “what happens to the person at the other end?”

She had been preparing to discuss royal charm, professional obligations and whether the court would accept a delay.

Instead she looked at the line between them.

For the first time since making the wish, she understood that wanting something immune to charm did not mean wanting something incapable of being hurt.