“It’s just me, alone out there, Hawthorne. I have no one to help me. No one to turn to when things get hard. The only person I’ve ever loved doesn’t remember who I am. Can you imagine what that feels like?”
At that question, a wild emotion flickered like lightning across his face. But before she could decipher it, he’d caged it.
“I know I’m a coward, okay?” Her throat tightened. Her eyes heated. “Trust me, I know it.”
He stared at her, wordless, then took a hesitant step.
Emeline stepped quickly back.
Because the truth was, deep down, shewishedshe could sing her own songs. More than anything. She missed it: Drawing words up from her depths, like water from a well. Putting them together like pieces in a puzzle. Finding exactly the right tune to match.
She hated that he’d fished it out of her.
“Emeline …”
Another thing she hated? The way he said her name. The way his voice seemed to summon her very soul to the surface of her skin.
He was supposed to be out of her system.
“Forgive me.” His eyes glimmered in the near dark. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
This time when he stepped towards her, she didn’t step back. He didn’t touch her, but he stood so close, he might as well be touching her. She could smell the woods on his skin. Could feel his warmth seeping into her.
The air heated as their gazes met.
Suddenly, they were no longer surrounded by lamplit streets, but the walls of the king’s palace. The full moon didn’t shine above them; instead, the light came from lit candles all down the halls.
As if by magic, he’d walked her straight up to the door of her rooms. Like this was a date and he was a gentleman.
“I knew a girl once,” he said softly, “whose songs helped her stand against all the forces stronger than she was.” Hesitantly, he reached to touch a wisp of hair escaping Emeline’s messybun. As he did, the plain white ring on his finger winked in the candlelight. “Sometimes, you remind me of her.”
She went still, watching him.
“Singing was like breathing for her.” He smiled at the memory. Like he could see this girl singing in his mind. “When she sang, she went somewhere no one could touch her.”
Was this the person Nettle mentioned? The one who broke his heart?
“What happened to her?”
This question shattered things. His hand fell quickly to his side and he moved back, as if stepping out from under a spell.
“Where did she go?”
He lowered his face. “Away from me.”
The silence stretched heavy between them. Hawthorne cleared his throat.
“Sleep well, Emeline.”
And then he turned and was gone.
LYING IN BED THATnight, Emeline tried to remember her younger self. What would that girl think of her now, burying her own songs in a locked folder and singing someone else’s?
Emeline’s fingers prickled, yearning for strings. She suddenly wanted those old songs. But she could only ever recall snippets of lines, a half-remembered chord progression. No matter how hard she tried, they eluded her. Locked away behind a password she couldn’t remember.
“Forgetting Is So Long.”
What kind of a hint was that? Emeline scowled, annoyed at herself for picking something so obscure.
