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. What matters is the way that we believe in them.Īnd Evangeline had a gift when it came to believing in things that others considered myths-like the immortal Fates. All stories are made of both truths and lies, she used to say.
And her mother had been from the Magnificent North, where there was no difference between fairytales and history. Her father, Maximilian, had always spoken of magic as if it were real. 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. 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. Doors didn’t simply disappear.īut Evangeline believed that they could.
It was the scandal sheet’s first article, and people said it was part of a hoax to sell subscriptions. 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. After two weeks of searching the city of Valenda, she’d found it. If hope were a pair of wings, Evangeline’s were stretching out behind her, eager to take flight again. 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.
Yet it couldn’t hide what it truly was from Evangeline. This door was just a rough block of wood with a missing handle and chipped white paint. 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.
Every entry here was carved panels, decorative architraves, glass awnings, and gilded keyholes. Nothing in the Temple District was this unattractive. 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. It’s now impossible for anyone to enter the church-Įvangeline shoved the two-week-old newsprint into the pocket of her flowered skirt. 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. The door to the Prince of Hearts’ church has disappeared.
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