The cold rushed in as he left her.
TWELVE
AFTER DRESSING IN THEwarm, practical clothes he’d dug out of her armoire, Emeline quickly braided her tangled hair, trying to banish the memory of him gathering it up in his hands. Trying to forget the sensation of his fingers deftly undoing her gown.
What is wrong with you?She glared at her reflection, wiping the remaining gold dust from her cheek.He’s the king’s henchman and the reason Pa’s trapped here. Pull yourself together.
Her face was flushed, so she splashed cold water on it. Before joining Hawthorne in the hall, Emeline paused, glancing to the door adjoining her and Pa’s rooms. Wondering if she should say good morning.
He’s probably not awake yet. And even if he is …
She’d frightened him last night. He hadn’t known her, and he might not know her this morning either. What was the point in saying hello?
Shrugging off the sting of that question, Emeline stepped out into the hall, where Hawthorne waited.
He sat on the floor, his back to the alabaster wall, bent over a sword. The long steel shaft lay across his lap as he slowly ran a sharpening stone down its edge. With every stroke, the steel glimmered—as if enchanted.
His movements were pensive, almost sorrowful. They tugged at Emeline, who found herself wanting to write them into a song. It was an urge she hadn’t had in a very long time.
He glanced up at her.
“I’m ready,” she told him.
He rose to his feet, sheathing the blade over his back. “Let’s get this over with.”
In the king’s stables, Lament awaited them in a stall, saddled and ready to go. The black mare snorted at their approach, golden eyes flashing red as she pawed the ground, annoyed at being made to wait.
Emeline mounted first, with the help of a stable hand. Hawthorne followed her into the saddle. As he reached around her to take the reins, his crushed-pine smell enveloped her. It seemed completely unfair that he should smell so good—like the woods on a sweet summer day.
She tightened her grip on Lament’s wiry black mane, forcing herself to remember who, exactly, this was. The young man behind her had tormented Edgewood all her life. He’d stolen her grandfather. He’d lied to her face.
Don’t forget.
They rode on in stony silence.
NEAR MIDDAY, AFTER THEYraced through endless silver forest, the ground began to rise. Lament slowed, climbing upwards through the sickly trees. The air was wet with rot here, and everywhere Emeline looked there was gray ashydeadness.
“Why is it like this?” she asked. It was the first time either of them had spoken since leaving the city.
Hawthorne shifted behind her. “The Stain?”
She nodded. From Edgewood, the forest looked green and alive. You would never guess it was rotten inside.
“It’s the curse—it poisons every living thing in the woods. It’s been spreading for years, from the heart of the forest outwards, and the more life it takes, the more powerful it grows.”
Emeline frowned, remembering what the trees had called the Stain:cursed territory.But none of the stories she’d grown up with had mentioned a curse.
“How long has it been this way?”
“As long as I’ve been alive.”
How long is that?she was tempted to ask. Hawthorne seemed close to her in age.If shiftlings even age the same as humans.
She didn’t actually know if he was a shiftling, though. Emeline made a mental note to check his shadow the next time they were in full light.
“The curse is why the king is … the way he is. He’s tied to the woods, and what poisons the woods poisons him. The curse has twisted his mind, turning him into the horrifying creature you met last night.”
It grew quiet around them. The only sound—aside from Hawthorne’s resonant voice—was the gentle rhythm of Lament’s hoofbeats on the forest floor.
