"Oh, Dad is going to be furious when he learns of what I've done!" I squeal, an exciting medley of nervousness and unashamed rebellion bubbling up in my stomach.

"And Father will have every right to be, Quinna. You have been nothing short of an intolerable nuisance since the day your infatuation with this suitor began." Vincent throws his hands up in exasperation, coming to a halt in the doorway. His mouth presses into a firm line; as his twin, I know mine does the same thing. The only difference is that his disappointment is a product of my behavior, whereas my own is simply a response to his criticisms. Vincent doesn't much enjoy fun, as I do.

"Don't be so pessimistic, dear brother. You should be glad that when I am to be spending time with Felix, you won't have the burden of me on your shoulders." I smile despite myself at the thought, warmth spreading across my chest. I sweep across my chambers, the action effortless in my new gown. It's a deep crimson color, with beige ruffles scalloping down to the floor. Each peak is embellished with a cluster of golden pearls, testaments to my wealth.

I reach my mirror and scrutinize myself. I examine the way the dress cinches at my waist and poofs out at the hips, and how my sleeveless arms rest gently against my sides. I admire the ribbons of fabric draped across my shoulders and how my chest is just as exposed as I like it to be. My eyes fall on Vincent in the mirror, who is still standing rigidly in the doorway. While my hair resembles layers upon layers of dark chocolate waves, Vincent's looks more like a tangle of bramble. Mine falls just to the middle of my back, while his resembles a mop of sorts, landing at chin-level. It suits him, I think.

I watch as he inhales slowly, deeply, contemplatively. "Ever the romantic, Quinna. It is but my only hope that you understand the implications of your recklessness."

I frown, turning towards him. My arms slide over each other defensively. "And what, Vincent Romeo-Hollande Cyrus the Second, would those be?"

"Well," he starts with a firm step in my direction. "Have you ever met this Felix? Outside of your sickening letters, that is."

I pull my hair across my left shoulder and run my fingers through it. "No. But if you were to have ever paid attention during Father's Court, perhaps you'd know better than to belittle me for this. Felix is the crown prince of Vorealis in the Northern regions, and-"

My brother scoffs, his mouth hanging open in some form of amused disbelief. His lips are slightly raised one end; this expression is getting dangerously close to a sneer. "Sister, if you are so concerned with this man's political status, it might be important to note that Vorealis is not a real nation. It doesn't exist."

I narrow my eyes at him and his perfect complexion. I suppose that, if his appearance is perfect, that makes mine just as extraordinary by default. This makes me happy, that I was not born with an ugly twin. "And how should you know, mister Supreme Circumnavigator?" I tease, inventing a new title dripping with sarcasm. "Have you mapped out all the continents? Have you seen enough of the world to declare with absolute confidence that Vorealis does not exist?"

His freckle-splattered nose twitches, jaw clenched, and I know immediately what I've done. "No, Quinna, I have not. I have not seen the world. Do you know why?" His eyes flick for a moment as he leans towards my ear, breath hot and shallow against it. "Because I can't see. You know this, don't you? You were there. You were there when he took it from me. When he took my- My-"

Vincent explodes into body-racking sobs. I throw my arms around him, hands cupping the back of his head as he collapses against my body. Warm tears trickle down the back of my neck and my entire body vibrates with tragedy. "I am so sorry, Vin, I am so sorry..." His hands grip the fabrics of my dress and he just shudders and shudders.

His breathing is so ragged, I'm afraid he'll suffocate. "Quinna," he gasps between heartbreaking wails, "It hurts. It hurts so bad." I stroke his hair and bury my own face in his shoulder as what I hope is a comforting gesture.

"I know. I'm here."

I hear him mumble something, whether to me or to himself, but I don't ask what it was that he said. But deep inside, a despair emerges that he may have said something to the effect of, "I want it to be over."

Once Vincent's respiratory patterns return to somewhat normalcy, he draws back. His cloudy grey eyes are rimmed with streaks of red, and tear stains grease his pale cheeks. I reach out and use my thumb to wipe them away, choking down my own urges to sob into him. I swallow hard. My hand falls from his face to his shoulder and down, down his shaking arm to his hand, which I take. "Quinna," he says again. "I- I shouldn't have done that. I ap- I apologize."

Before I can deny his reservations, he tears his hand free and briskly walks out of my bedroom, as he's done dozens of times before; he has become rather adept at navigating this wing of the castle since that day. An outstretched hand brushes the frame of my grand oak doors as he goes, and I watch the end of his velvet tailcoat disappear around the corner.

[--->*<---]

It wasn't long ago when I did not believe in magic, but now that I am forced to, I can't help but think about wishes, like in the folktales. If I had but one wish at my disposal, it would never begin to suffice for the task of easing my brother's pain. It would take a million more to compensate for my father's crimes on his own son. So, maybe if I were blessed with the gift of one singular wish, it would be that there was anything within my powers that I could do to restore Vincent.

It's such a shame that the closest thing to a wish is precisely what hurt him in the first place.