I have watched dozens of minstrels die for offenses as petty as singing a single note off-key.
She thought of those bark-hard hands closing around her throat, choking off her air, squeezing until it hurt.
Emeline shuddered. It could happen again tonight; she knew it could. She’d learned ten of the Mage’s songs and rewritten his missing waltz, but it might not be enough.
I have to try.
Because the alternative was escaping without Pa and leaving him at the mercy of the curse.
That thought pierced like an arrow. Emeline shook her head. She’d abandoned her grandfather once; she wouldn’t do it again. Not even if he wanted her to.
Pushing herself onto her toes, she pressed a kiss to Hawthorne’s cheek. “Thank you for the offer,” she whispered. “But I have to take my chances with the king.”
Letting go, Emeline left him there beneath the crystal dome and walked back to her rooms, where her attendants waited.
TWENTY-SIX
JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT, PAescorted Emeline to her demonstration. She kept close, in case he teetered, her arm tucked inside his elbow. As they walked, he hummed the tune of “Goodnight, Irene,” transporting her back to a time when he would play this song on his accordion while she did homework by the fireplace.
Emeline held on tighter.
Soon, they stepped into the king’s grove. The night sky was clouded overhead, and the giant birches were leafless around them. She helped Pa to one of the empty tables, where courtiers gathered.
He squeezed her hand before she walked away.
The hard earth crunched beneath Emeline as she moved to face the king. She’d worn a knit shawl to ward off the night’s cold bite, but it was mild in the grove. The air shimmered as she walked, making Emeline wonder if the king enchanted it to stay warm.
Finally, she stood before the Wood King. He was clothed in moths tonight. Thousands of them crowded his body, their creamy wings folding and unfolding, like hundreds of blinking eyes. Behind him, black mold speckled his white throne, and the grass at his feet was gray and dying.
The smell of magic hung thick in the air here, making her dizzy.
The king leaned forward on his throne. “Are you ready, singer?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Then let me hear the songs.”
It was difficult at first, with the full intensity of the king’s gaze fixed on her face. She was used to being blinded by lights, unable to see her audience. But so long as she focused on the song instead of her surroundings, the king and the courtiers and the grove faded away.
The Song Mage’s music was the only thing that mattered tonight, and she soon found her rhythm. Her body hummed with warmth as her heel tapped out a beat on the ground, and the lyrics spilled from her lips: Odes to a woman marked by the moon. Songs that immortalized her midnight hair and cobalt eyes.
As Emeline sang, a familiar longing swelled within her.
I miss this.
The raw energy of a room. The way every crowd was different. The way it kept her on her toes, wanting to please them.
It made her come alive.
She yearned to be on tour, going from city to city, stage to stage. A new audience every night. Her name in bold letters, lit up by bright white marquees.
Soon,she thought.Soon I’ ll be home, and this will be my life again.
The king smiled as he listened. Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes, falling under the spell of Emeline’s voice.
At the sight of it—their king, soothed—the watching courtiers relaxed, sinking into the songs. Nodding along to the beat. Tapping their toes.
She’d done it.
