NINETEEN
BACK IN THE SAFETYof her rooms, Emeline took Pa out onto their shared terrace beneath the stars—to soothe them both. The garden was aglow with fireflies, and alive with the chatter of night birds. But the night was cold. After seating Pa in a chair, she tucked a thick blanket around him, then went to fetch one for herself.
When she returned, stepping out through her door and onto the darkened terrace, Pa jumped.
“Who’s there?”
Emeline hesitated, frozen between the door and her grandfather. “It’s just me. Emeline.”
Her voice scratched like sandpaper. Startled, she reached protectively for her throat, rubbing it gently to assess the damage. She remembered the feel of the Wood King’s hands. The painful squeeze. The terror of gasping for air to find there was none.
I need to get Pa away from this place.
But even here, there were hedgemen stationed at the doors of their quarters as well as patrolling the garden, their gazes glued to Emeline. Even if she could get past them—even if she could getPapast them—the palace gate was even more heavily guarded.
And then there was the city gate to get through …
“Emeline, yes.” The night hid Pa’s face from her. “Of course I know who you are.”
The admission shocked her.You do?she thought, lowering herself into the chair next to his.
“I planted a tree for you. On the day you were born.” He smiled at the memory.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Whatever happened to that tree?” he asked, suddenly frowning. “One day it was there and the next it was gone.”
Emeline glanced away from him. “You cut it down after I left.”
“What’s that?” He turned sharply towards her. His face was all shadows. “Why on earth would I cut it down?”
Emeline shrugged. She’d believed it was because he forgot her and, with her, the reason he’d planted it.
She’d loved that tree as a kid, climbing up into its boughs, telling it all her secrets and singing it her songs. It had been like a good friend.
“Listen, duckie, I know I’m losing my mind,” he spoke into the darkness. “I’m forgetting things. Iknow.But I would never cut down your tree.”
There was something about the way he said it that made her look at him. He was strangely lucid, remembering her name and who she was. Remembering her tree.
“That tree was an offering,” he said softly, as if to himself. “A gift to the Wood King. If I wanted the forest to keep you safe, I had to offer something in exchange.”
Emeline frowned. He’d never told her that before. But it made sense: the residents of Edgewood were superstitious people. It was no different from hanging boughs of hawthorn over their lintels to protect themselves from the Hunt.
Emeline and her grandfather fell into a companionable silence. It made her long for her guitar, in order to imprint thismoment into a song. The way his eyes recognized her. The way he spoke her name—warm and familiar. Like before.
“Emeline,” he said, breaking the silence. His blue eyes were earnest as they peered into hers. “I want you to do something for me. I want you to get out of this place.”
She nodded. “As soon as you’re safe, I will. But I need to get you home first.”
He turned fully towards her, leaning across the arm of his chair. She studied the familiar lines of his face, the cowlick in his gray hair. “My time is running out, duckie. But yours …” He looked down at his open hands. “I never wanted this.” He shook his head. “It’s my fault that you’re here.”
She was about to argue when he reached across the space between them, taking her slender hands in his big ones.
“I want you to leave me here and go home, Emeline. I want to live out what little time I have left knowing you’re happy and safe.” He smiled a sad smile. “Will you do that for me?”
Emeline swallowed the lump in her throat, then squeezed his hand.
She couldn’t leave him again.
