It took her twice as long as it would have taken him. But still, he stood there.
When she finished, Hawthorne lifted the saddle and went to hang it on the wall outside the stall. In his absence, hoping he’d change his mind and go, Emeline pressed her forehead to Lament’s flank, breathing in the smells of the stable around them: fresh hay and old leather and wood.
Instead, Hawthorne returned with a wool blanket. His movements were slow as he tossed it over Lament’s glistening back, making Emeline wonder if he was in pain.
“I can handle this,” she told him. “Go inside.”
“I’ll go inside when you tell me what has you so frightened.” He reached for her hands. “You’re shaking. What happened?”
She remembered the hate twisting her mother’s face. Remembered those rough fingers grabbing her cheeks and the nails scraping her skin. Remembered her mother lifting the sharpened tip of Sable’s blade to her heart.
Her mother hadn’t recognized her. Or maybe she had and wanted her dead anyway—because Emeline washis.A reminder of the horrible things he’d done to her.
Of course Rose would hate the sight of her daughter.
Tom would hate the sight of Emeline too, when he found out what she was the product of. Tom would never be able to look at her again.
And what would the rest of Edgewood think?
What wouldHawthornethink?
That thought made her throat close up. Hot tears pricked her eyes. Pulling her hands out of his, she knotted her fingers together and walked out of Lament’s stall to the edge of the stable, where a cold breeze blew in.
She wanted to run far away from here.
She wanted to outrun the truth.
“Emeline.” The warmth of him moved up her back. When she didn’t answer, he reached for her wrist.“Emeline.”
But there was something else she wanted. Something deeper, humming like a pulse beneath her skin. She wanted to turn and burrow her face in Hawthorne’s throat, breathe in his scent, pull his mouth down to hers, and drown in him.
Is this how my father felt?
The question scared her.
She glanced to where Hawthorne’s fingers gently encircled her wrist. “Please don’t touch me,” she whispered.
He raised his hands, stepping back. “Will you at least tell me what’s wrong? Perhaps I can help.”
She smiled a bitter smile, turning to face him. “You can’t help.”
“Let me try.”
Emeline swallowed, looking away. She shook her head. If she was leaving tonight, it wouldn’t matter, would it?
“What if I told you …” But how could she tell him?
Try.
“What if I told you the Vile wasn’t the real horror? That the real horror was the Song Mage?”
Hawthorne took a slow, small step towards her. “I would believe you.”
The brass buttons of his coat shone in the moonlight. Emeline fixed her gaze on them.
“What if I told you that the Song Mage wanted his muse so badly, he stole her away from everything she loved, enchanted her to want him and him alone, and when the enchantment wore off, imprisoned her in his cellar?”
Hawthorne paused.
