But she was already turning.
“Take Lament, at least!” he called, getting wet as he walked towards her.
“It’s fine!” she yelled.
It wasn’t fine. He could tell by the strain of her voice. But the closer he came to her, the more desperate she seemed to get away.
The basket she carried hit the earth, and suddenly, she was running. Her shoes pounded the wet stones of the bridge, carrying her across the creek.
Hawthorne stopped walking and picked up her basket. Inside was a lumpy, slightly burnt loaf of bread. Clearly, she’d baked it herself.
He glanced up, watching her disappear into the trees.
This was all his fault.
I’m sorry, he thought, miserably.
Beside him, Lament blew her hot breath against his face. As if voicing her disappointment in him.
JUST BEFORE DAWN, HAWTHORNEwoke with a start, struggling to breathe. Sitting upright in the darkness, he gasped for air as the dream swelled behind his eyes: her laugh as he caught her around the waist. His thumb brushing the flour from her cheek. His teeth on the curve of her bare shoulder.
The dreams came every night, making him feel like a trespasser. Like someone invading the intimate moments of another.
And the worst part—
He shook off the thought.
It had been like this since he returned. He didn’t remember her during his waking hours. But at night, his dreams were full of her.
At night, the memories burnedhot.
At least, he hoped they were memories. They could just as easily be fantasies. He had no way to know.
Throwing back the covers, Hawthorne lit a lamp and rose from the bed, then went to stand over the kitchen table, where the bread she’d baked him still sat.
He thought of her in his yard last night, drenched and shivering.
What would have happened if Aspen hadn’t been here?
If he’d brought her inside and warmed her up himself?
He recalled his dream, thinking of all the ways he might have chased her shivers away. Hawthorne ran a shaky handthrough his hair. These thoughts were unhelpful. The whole point of avoiding Emeline was so he wouldn’t have them.
Ever since Rooke told him the truth about what he’d done to her, Hawthorne couldn’t face the Song Mage.
He couldn’t face himself.
What kind of monster stole the memories of the girl he loved to make her do the very thing she didn’t want to do?
Hawthorne wished he could believe he wasn’t that same person, that he would never do something like that again. But what if that wasn’t true?
How well did he know himself, really?
It was why he’d been avoiding Emeline. The less time he spent with her, the safer she was, and the less he hated himself for what he’d done to her.
It was why he’d stopped walking her home every night. Why he kept declining her invitations to dinner. And when they found themselves at the same parties, it was why he kept his distance and let Aspen steal his time and attention.
Picking up the loaf of bread, Hawthorne thought of Emeline wilting at the sight of his dinner guest. He knew the rumors circulating about him and Aspen. People thought they were courting because of how much time they spent together.
