_Once_Upon_a_Broken_Heart_-_Stephanie_Garber
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About the Author
Copyright Page
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For anyone who has ever made a bad decision because of a
broken heart
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Warnings and Signs
The bell hanging outside the curiosity shop knew the human was trouble
from the way he moved through the door. Bells have excellent hearing, but
this little chime didn’t need any particular skill to catch the crude jangle of
the gaudy pocket-watch chain at this young man’s hip, or the rough scrape
of his boots as he attempted a swagger but only succeeded in scuffing the
floor of Maximilian’s Curiosities, Whimsies & Other Oddities.
This young man was going to ruin the girl that worked inside the shop.
The bell had tried to warn her. A full two seconds before the boy opened
the door, the bell rang its clapper. Unlike most humans, this shopgirl had
grown up around oddities—and the bell had long suspected she was a
curiosity as well, though it couldn’t figure out exactly what sort.
The girl knew that many objects were more than they appeared and that
bells possessed a sixth sense that humans lacked. Unfortunately, this girl,
who believed in hope and fairytales and love at first sight, often
misinterpreted the bell’s chimes. Today the bell was fairly certain that she
had heard its cautionary ring. But, from the way her voice affected an
excited edge as she spoke to the young man, it seemed as if the girl had
taken the bell’s early toll as a serendipitous sign instead of as a warning.
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PART I
The Tale of
Evangeline Fox
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1
The Whisper Gazette
WHERE WILL THE BROKENHEARTED PRAY NOW?
By Kutlass Knightlinger
The door to the Prince of Hearts’ church has disappeared. Painted the deep bloodred of broken hearts,
the iconic entry simply vanished from one of the Temple District’s most visited churches sometime
during the night, leaving behind an impenetrable marble wall. It’s now impossible for anyone to enter
the church—
Evangeline shoved the two-week-old newsprint into the pocket of her
flowered skirt. The door at the end of this decrepit alley was barely taller
than she was, and hidden behind a rusted metal grate instead of covered in
beautiful bloodred paint, but she would have bet her father’s curiosity shop
that this was the missing door.
Nothing in the Temple District was this unattractive. Every entry here
was carved panels, decorative architraves, glass awnings, and gilded
keyholes. Her father had been a man of faith, but he used to say that the
churches here were like vampires—they weren’t meant for worship, they
were designed to entice and entrap. But this door was different. This door
was just a rough block of wood with a missing handle and chipped white
paint.
This door did not want to be found.
Yet it couldn’t hide what it truly was from Evangeline.
The jagged shape of it was unmistakable. One side was a sloping curve,
the other a serrated slash, forming one half of a broken heart—a symbol of
the Fated Prince of Hearts.
Finally.
If hope were a pair of wings, Evangeline’s were stretching out behind
her, eager to take flight again. After two weeks of searching the city of
Valenda, she’d found it.
When the gossip sheet in her pocket had first announced that the door
from the Prince of Hearts’ church had gone missing, few imagined it was
magic. It was the scandal sheet’s first article, and people said it was part of
a hoax to sell subscriptions. Doors didn’t simply disappear.
But Evangeline believed that they could. The story hadn’t felt like a
gimmick to her; it had felt like a sign, telling her where to search if she was
going to save her heart and the boy that it belonged to.
She might not have seen much evidence of magic outside of the oddities
in her father’s curiosity shop, but she had faith it existed. Her father,
Maximilian, had always spoken of magic as if it were real. And her mother
had been from the Magnificent North, where there was no difference
between fairytales and history. All stories are made of both truths and lies,
she used to say. What matters is the way that we believe in them.
And Evangeline had a gift when it came to believing in things that
others considered myths—like the immortal Fates.
She opened the metal grate. The door itself didn’t have a handle, forcing
her to wedge her fingers into the tiny space between its jagged edge and the
dirty stone wall.
The door pinched her fingers, drawing a drop of blood, and she swore
she heard its splintered voice say, Do you know what you’re about to step
into? Nothing but heartbreak will come from this.
But Evangeline’s heart was already broken. And she understood the
risks she was taking. She knew the rules for visiting Fated churches:
Always promise less than you can give, for Fates always take more.
Do not make bargains with more than one Fate.
And, above all, never fall in love with a Fate.
There were sixteen immortal Fates, and they were jealous and
possessive beings. Before they’d vanished centuries ago, it was said they
ruled over part of the world with magic that was as malevolent as it was
marvelous. They never broke a bargain, although they often hurt the people
they helped. Yet most people—even if they believed the Fates were merely
myths—became desperate enough to pray to them at some point.
Evangeline had always been curious about their churches, but she’d
known enough about the mercurial nature of Fates and Fated bargains to
avoid seeking their places of worship. Until two weeks ago, when she’d
become one of those desperate people the stories always cautioned about.
“Please,” she whispered to the heart-shaped door, filling her voice with
the wild and battered hope that had led her here. “I know you’re a clever
little thing. But you allowed me to find you. Let me in.”
She gave the wood a final tug.
This time, the door opened.
Evangeline’s heart raced as she took her first step. During her search for
the missing door, she’d read that the Prince of Hearts’ church held a
different aroma for everyone who visited. It was supposed to smell like a
person’s greatest heartbreak.
But as Evangeline entered the cool cathedral, the air did not remind her
of Luc—there were no hints of suede or vetiver. The dim mouth of the
church was slightly sweet and metallic: apples and blood.
Gooseflesh covered her arms. This was not reminiscent of the boy she
loved. The account she’d read must have been wrong. But she didn’t turn
around. She knew Fates weren’t saints or saviors, although she hoped that
the Prince of Hearts was more feeling than the others.
Her steps took her deeper inside the cathedral. Everything was
shockingly white. White carpets, white candles, white prayer pews of white
oak, white aspen, and flaky white birch.
Evangeline passed row after row of mismatched white benches. They
might have been handsome once, but now many had missing legs, while
others had mutilated cushions or benches that had been broken in half.
Broken.
Broken.
Broken.
No wonder the door hadn’t wanted to let her enter. Perhaps this church
wasn’t sinister, it was sad—
A rough rip shattered the church’s silence.
Evangeline spun around and choked back a gasp.
Several rows behind her, in a shadowed corner, a young man appeared
to be in mourning or performing some act of penance. Wild locks of golden
hair hung across his face as his head bowed and his fingers tore at the
sleeves of his burgundy topcoat.
Her heart felt a pang as she watched him. She was tempted to ask if he
needed help. But he’d probably chosen the corner to go unnoticed.
And she didn’t have much time left.
There were no clocks inside the church, but Evangeline swore she heard
the tick of a second hand, working at erasing the precious minutes she had
until Luc’s wedding.
She hurried down the nave to the apse, where the fractured rows of
benches ceased and a gleaming marble dais rose before her. The platform
was pristine, lit by a wall of beeswax candles and surrounded by four fluted
columns, guarding a larger-than-life statue of the Fated Prince of Hearts.
The back of her neck prickled.
Evangeline knew what he was supposed to look like. Decks of Destiny,
which used Fated images to tell fortunes, had recently become a popular
item in her father’s curiosity shop. The Prince of Hearts’ card represented
unrequited love, and it always depicted the Fate as tragically handsome,
with vivid blue eyes crying tears that matched the blood forever staining the
corner of his sulky mouth.
There were no bloody tears on this glowing statue. But its face did
possess a ruthless kind of beauty, the sort Evangeline would have expected
from a demigod that had the ability to kill with his kiss. The prince’s marble
lips twisted into a perfect smirk that should have looked cold and hard and
sharp, but there was a hint of softness to his slightly fuller lower lip—it
pouted out like a deadly invitation.
According to the myths, the Prince of Hearts was not capable of love
because his heart had stopped beating long ago. Only one person could
make it work again: his one true love. They said his kiss was fatal to all but
her—his only weakness—and as he’d sought her, he’d left a trail of corpses.
Evangeline couldn’t imagine a more tragic existence. If one Fate were
to have sympathy for her situation, it would be the Prince of Hearts.
Her gaze found his elegant marble fingers clasping a dagger the size of
her forearm. The blade pointed down toward a stone offering basin
balanced on a burner, just above a low circle of dancing white flames. The
words Blood for a Prayer were carved into its side.
Evangeline took a deep breath.
This was what she’d come here for.
She pressed her finger to the tip of the blade. Sharp marble pierced her
skin, and drop after drop of blood fell, sizzling and hissing, filling the air
with more metal and sweet.
A part of her hoped this tithe might conjure up some sort of magical
display. That the statue would come to life, or the Prince of Hearts’ voice
would fill the church. But nothing moved save for the flames on the wall of
candles. She couldn’t even hear the anguished young man in the back of the
church. It was just her and the statue.
“Dear—Prince,” she started haltingly. She’d never prayed to a Fate, and
she didn’t want to get it wrong. “I’m here because my parents are dead.”
Evangeline cringed. That was not how she was supposed to start.
“What I meant to say was, my parents have both passed away. I lost my
mother a couple of years ago. Then I lost my father last season. Now I’m
about to lose the boy that I love.
“Luc Navarro—” Her throat closed as she said the name and pictured
his crooked smile. Maybe if he’d been plainer, or poorer, or crueler, none of
this would have happened. “We’ve been seeing each other in secret. I was
supposed to be in mourning for my father. Then, a little over two weeks
ago, on the day that Luc and I were going to tell our families we were in
love, my stepsister, Marisol, announced that she and Luc were getting
married.”
Evangeline paused to close her eyes. This part still made her head spin.
Quick engagements weren’t uncommon. Marisol was pretty, and although
she was reserved, she was also kind—so much kinder than Evangeline’s
stepmother, Agnes. But Evangeline had never even seen Luc in the same
room as Marisol.
“I know how this sounds, but Luc loves me. I believe he’s been cursed.
He hasn’t spoken to me since the engagement was announced—he won’t
even see me. I don’t know how she did it, but I’m certain this is all my
stepmother’s doing.” Evangeline didn’t actually have any proof that Agnes
was a witch and she’d cast a curse on Luc. But Evangeline was certain her
stepmother had learned of Evangeline’s relationship with Luc and she’d
wanted Luc, and the title he’d someday inherit, for her daughter instead.
“Agnes has resented me ever since my father died. I’ve tried talking to
Marisol about Luc. Unlike my stepmother, I don’t think Marisol would ever
intentionally hurt me. But every time I try to open my mouth, the words
won’t come out, as if they’re also cursed or I’m cursed. So I’m here,
begging for your help. The wedding is today, and I need you to stop it.”
Evangeline opened her eyes.
The lifeless statue hadn’t changed. She knew statues didn’t generally
move. Yet she couldn’t help but think that it should have done something—
shifted or spoken or moved its marble eyes. “Please, I know you understand
heartbreak. Stop Luc from marrying Marisol. Save my heart from breaking
again.”
“Now, that was a pathetic speech.” Two slow claps followed the
indolent voice, which sounded just a few feet away.
Evangeline spun around, all the blood draining from her face. She didn’t
expect to see him—the young man who’d been tearing his clothes in the
back of the church. Although it was difficult to believe this was the same
person. She had thought that boy was in agony, but he must have ripped
away his pain along with the sleeves of his jacket, which now hung in
tatters over a striped black-and-white shirt that was only halfway tucked
into his breeches.
He sat on the dais steps, lazily leaning against one of the pillars with his
long, lean legs stretched out before him. His hair was golden and messy, his
too-bright blue eyes were bloodshot, and his mouth twitched at the corner
as if he didn’t enjoy much, but he found pleasure in the brief bit of pain
he’d just inflicted upon her. He looked bored and rich and cruel.
“Would you like me to stand up and turn around so that you can take in
the rest of me?” he taunted.
The color instantly returned to Evangeline’s cheeks. “We’re in a
church.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” In one elegant move, the
young man reached into the inner pocket of his ripped burgundy coat,
pulled out a pure white apple, and took one bite. Dark red juice dripped
from the fruit to his long, pale fingers and then onto the pristine marble
steps.
“Don’t do that!” Evangeline hadn’t meant to yell. Although she wasn’t
shy with strangers, she generally avoided quarrelling with them. But she
couldn’t seem to help it with this crass young man. “You’re being
disrespectful.”
“And you’re praying to an immortal who kills every girl he kisses. You
really think he deserves any reverence?” The awful young man punctuated
his words with another wide bite of his apple.
She tried to ignore him. She really did. But it was like some terrible
magic had taken hold of her. Rather than marching off, Evangeline
imagined the stranger taking her lips instead of his snack and kissing her
with his fruit-sweet mouth until she died in his arms.
No. It couldn’t be …
“You’re staring again,” he purred.
Evangeline immediately looked away, turning back to the marble
carving. Minutes ago, its lips alone had made her heart race, but now it just
seemed like an ordinary statue, lifeless compared to this vicious young man.
“Personally, I think I’m far more handsome.” Suddenly, the young man
stood right beside her.
Butterflies fluttered to life inside Evangeline’s stomach. Scared ones.
All frantic wings and too-fast beats, warning her to get out of there, to run,
to flee. But she couldn’t look away.
This close, he was undeniably attractive, and taller than she’d realized.
He gave her a real smile, revealing a pair of dimples that briefly made him
look more angel than devil. But she imagined even angels would need to
beware of him. She could picture him flashing those deceptive dimples as
he tricked an angel into losing its wings just so he could play with the
feathers.
“It’s you,” she whispered. “You’re the Prince of Hearts.”
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