“Butwhy?”
“You want to save him, don’t you? This is the only way you can.”
A sudden movement interrupted them, fluttering at the edge of her vision. Murmurs rippled through the crowd of courtiers.
“What is this?” said a rough-soft voice.
Emeline looked to find the crowd parting and someone familiar striding through. Maple-dark hair. River-rock eyes. The same young man she’d met in the woods earlier tonight. The one with the ember mare. The one who’dliedto her.
At the sight of Emeline, he halted, the lines of his body drawing tight and tense.
Dirt spilled from her fingers as she rose to her feet.
“Emeline,” said Rooke, rising alongside her. “This is Hawthorne Fell. The king’s tithe collector.”
The words made Emeline’s heart skip.
Tithe collector?
But that meant …
It meant the young man before her was the very one who’d whisked her grandfather away. The one who left the marker on Pa’s pillow and then, when Emeline had pulled it out to prove he’d been stolen,pretended like he didn’t recognize it.
He told her Pa wasn’t in the woods. He told her she was looking in the wrong place.
How many times had he lied to her tonight?
Her blood turned to fire in her veins.
“You didn’t tell her,” Rooke murmured, seeing the murder in Emeline’s eyes.
Trembling with anger, she jabbed her finger in the air towards the gray-eyed tithe collector. “This isyour fault,asshole.”
If he hadn’t taken Pa, neither of them would be here, imprisoned in the Wood King’s court.
None of this would have happened.
“My fault? If you …” Hawthorne’s words faltered as his gaze swept over her muddy form, catching sight of the bloodied cut on her left hand. A frown thundered on his brow as he turned towards Rooke, who was also caked in mud. “Didyoubring her here?”
Suddenly, a girl stepped up to Hawthorne’s side, equal in age. Her russet-brown hair was pulled off her face in a messy braid. She was tall and lean, and her golden eyes shone in the darkness. Two long blades were sheathed at her back in a crisscross, and the sleeves of her rust-colored shirt were rolled to her elbows.
She looked almost feral, more wild creature than girl.
Emeline glanced to her shadow. Sure enough, the dark shape behind her had wolflike ears and sharp fangs.
A shiftling.
“Emeline,” said Rooke. “This is Sable Thorne. Sable, this is Emeline Lark. The king’s new singer.”
“What?” Sable and Hawthorne said in unison. The former, shocked; the latter, furious.
Sable moved like the wind, grabbing the lapels of Rooke’s coat and nearly lifting him off his feet. “What have you done?”
Rooke seemed entirely unfazed. As if he was used to being manhandled by Sable. Emeline couldn’t tell if they were good friends, or mortal enemies.
“I’d love to catch you up, but I’m sure Emeline wishes to see her grandfather.”
“Rooke.”
