Emeline’s throat tightened. She clutched the sink harder, wanting to purge his rough-soft voice and his leather-pine smell and his river-rock eyes from her memory.
Once she got up onstage tomorrow, it would be a whirlwind of catching flights and checking into hotels and recovering from jet lag—not to mention performing—for weeks. She would have no time to think about Hawthorne Fell, or anything else. Not the cursed forest or its cruel king. Not the monstrous mother who wanted her dead. And especially not the dark power lurking in her depths.
Good riddance,she thought.To all of it.
Pushing away from the sinks, she headed out of the washroom.
As she was on her way back to the table, The Perennials clustered even closer together. Joel was still absent, as was Edwin. When she drew nearer, she heard Ashley say, “I give her a year before she drops off the map.”
Emeline gritted her teeth.Still?What was it about Chloe that irked them so much?
“I dunno, Ash. I mean, she’s touring withus.”
Emeline slowed.
“Are you kidding me?” Ashley raised a thin, skeptical brow. “The only reason she’s touring with us is because she’s screwing Joel. And Joel is best buds with Edwin.”
Emeline halted, her mouth going dry as cotton. The words were ugly and cruel.
They were also abouther.
“Joel called in a favor. You know how obsessed he is with her. Emeline Lark has no talent, and everyone knows it. She uses a writer, for Christ’s sake.”
Emeline stood frozen, several steps away. She told herself tokeep walking. To head for the bar and order another root beer, then come back and pretend she hadn’t heard.
But Ashley’s words had burrowed deep, immobilizing her.
Emeline felt like the one wrong note in the middle of all the right ones. Discordant. Unaligned. As if she was in the wrong song entirely.
No,she told herself sternly.You belong here.
She needed to stay strong and get through this.
You’ve survived worse.
Suddenly, someone bumped her shoulder. A rush of something wet and cold swept up her shirt, stunning her.
“Oh no!” Clutching her now mostly empty glass, Chloe stared at the beer drenching Emeline. “Em, I’m so sorry.”
The conversation at the table abruptly halted as the members of The Perennials turned towards them.
Fighting down the lump in her throat, Emeline smiled at Chloe. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” And because they were listening, she touched Chloe’s elbow and added, “Congrats on signing with Daybreak, by the way. I’m really proud of you.”
Emeline excused herself and walked outside, gulping in the cool evening air, waving her shirt in an effort to dry it. The parking lot was silent except for some smokers huddled on the curb and Joel leaning against the trunk of his car, still on a call. Pressing her back to the brick wall, she slid down to the sidewalk and dialed a number on her phone.
“Hello?”
Emeline closed her eyes at the sound of his voice.
“Hi,” she breathed.
“Who is this?”
“Emeline. Your granddaughter. I just … I needed to hear your voice.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE NEXT NIGHT, EMELINEsat on the floor of the Nymph’s green room. She pressed her head to the cold plaster wall as fans lined up outside, waiting to get into the venue. Her bare legs were crossed at the ankles, her noise-canceling headphones covered her ears, and her fingers craved the strings of her guitar—which was waiting for her out onstage, along with her ukulele.
