Um, what?Emeline stared at him. “I’m sorry?”
Pushing away from the jamb, he stepped slowly into the room. “Is everything you sing like that?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, temper simmering. “Likewhat?”
“Dull and shallow.”
The words stung.
No. This was perfect. The Wood King’s henchman was back to his callous, surly self. That suited Emeline just fine. She didn’t need his friendship. She only needed his help learning the Song Mage’s music.
He took another step, coming farther into the room. “Like I said: not veryyou.”
Emeline’s fingers dug into the sleeves of her sweater. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
He didn’t answer. Only looked beyond her, to the city below, his jaw clenching. “Should we begin? Your demonstration is tonight.”
He didn’t get to do that. Didn’t get to provoke her, then move on as if he’d done nothing wrong. But their squabbling was cutting into her lesson, and her demonstrationwastonight. They needed to get down to work.
Emeline tamped down on her anger, picked out the next song from the Song Mage’s stack of music, and handed it to him. Keeping the growl out of her voice, she said, “Start with this one.”
ALL THROUGH THE LESSON, the tension between them remained. Emeline’s emotions bubbled, threatening to spill over. Anger, shame, and something else. Some fragile, shimmering thing she needed to keep contained.
Hawthorne, too, was off his game. Now that she was looking, there were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and his maple-dark hair was wild as a raven’s ruffled feathers, as if from running his hands through it.
Maybe she wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep last night.
In yesterday’s lesson, he’d been a model of restraint. Controlled and in charge. Leading her through the first two songs.
Today, there was a fault line running through him.
But they forged ahead, untangling the difficult knots of the next two songs together. When Emeline found the heart of each one, when she carried the notesjust right,she looked—despite herself—for that slight nod of approval, that tiny hint of a smile that told her he was impressed.
Instead, she found him coming undone: hands clenched, eyes thirsty. As if he wanted to drink in the sound of her voice. As if he wanted to drink her down to the dregs.
When their gazes met, he tore his away, face shuttering closed, entombing himself within a wall of stone. As if her voice did something to him that he didn’t want it to do and he was trying his best to ward himself against it—and failing.
As if yesterday he’d been holding himself in check. Reining something in.
The idea of it—thatshecould get past his defenses—made something swell inside her. Part delicious challenge, part revenge for his refusing to deliver her message to Joel, Emeline yearned to smash down his walls, just to prove she could. She longed to strip down his defenses and force him to face her head-on.
“Again,” he commanded when she got the notes wrong. Still pushing. Still demanding her best.
Emeline sang it again, then again.
This time, when their voices aligned, Emeline’s blood hummed like a tuning fork. She could feel herself on the cusp of something.
Sensing it, Hawthorne hesitated. His voice wavered as he pulled back, about to close himself off.
Don’t you dare.She stared him down.We aren’t done.
Emeline had an intense urge toforcehim to stay with her. Letting go of her temper, she reached for him with the melody, fixing him in place with her voice. Needing to know what lay beyond those walls of his. Wanting his secrets.
Face me.
Her voice held him hostage.
Let down your walls before I break them.
