She moved to the kitchen, but it was empty. Then the bedroom—empty too. She searched every room, opened every door. But he wasn’t here. No one was. Her breath came too quick. Her thoughts raced in panicked loops.
I’m too late.
But why wouldn’t the king have told her so?
An ax splitting wood broke the silence. Her heart skipped at the sound.
Emeline moved towards the front door, hanging open on its hinges, and stepped outside. When the sound came again, Emeline’s pulse sped up and she followed it past the stable, to the back of the house.
Her footsteps slowed as she spotted him.
Hawthorne stood near a long, neatly packed woodpile—very much alive. His pine-green shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows and both his hands gripped the shaft of an ax. He brought it up over his head and swung it down, neatly cleaving the log in two before replacing it with another. His eyes were dark and his jaw was set, as if chopping wood while he awaited his death sentence was the only thing keeping him calm.
He swung twice more before sensing her in the yard.
Hawthorne looked up. His face changed as his gaze swept down her, taking in her unruly hair and windburned cheeks.
“Emeline …”
Something bright and burning flared within her. She stumbled towards him, limping through the pain in her heel.
He lodged the ax head in the chopping block, then turned toher. She threw her arms around him, pressing her forehead into the curve of his neck and holding on tight.
Hawthorne’s arms came around her, cocooning her in warmth. He pulled her against him, one hand skimming across her lower back while the other cupped her head, tucking it beneath his chin.
“You’re alive,” she whispered.
“And you’re trembling.”
She held him tighter. “I thought I was too late.”
All too soon, Hawthorne pulled away from her to glance down at her foot.Eyeing her bloody heel, he bent, scooping her knees beneath his arm, and carried her into the house.
THIRTY
AS HAWTHORNE TENDED HERfoot, Emeline showed him the sheet music for “Rose’s Waltz,” along with the photo of her mother. After pointing out her mother’s moon tattoo, she recounted what Tom told her about Rose falling in love with someone in the Wood King’s court.
Hawthorne straddled the bench beside the harvest table, facing her. Steam rose from the bowl of hot water in front of him, and on the table was a jar of Rooke’s moonshine and clean strips of white cotton gauze. Taking her heel in his hands, he checked for glass shards embedded in the wound before starting to wash it.
“My mother was the Song Mage’s muse,” she told him. “I’m sure of it.”
As he listened, Hawthorne’s hands gently wiped the dirt and blood from her foot, avoiding the cut at first, then prodding it carefully until it was clean.
“I think his death broke her. I wish I had the photos to show you. She looked … dead inside.”
The opposite of how she looked with Tom.
Hawthorne was strangely quiet. He hadn’t said one word since she first started talking. He unscrewed the lid from the jar of moonshine. With her foot in one hand and the jar in the other, he glanced up, asking permission.
Emeline nodded, giving it.
Her grip on the bench tightened as he poured alcohol over the wound, sanitizing it. She hissed through her teeth at the sting. When it was over, she sucked in a breath and relaxed.
“My mother could still be in the King’s City.”
Silently, Hawthorne took strips of gauze and wrapped them generously around and around her heel, pinning them in place. When he finished, he set her foot in his lap and, very gently, dragged his thumb in slow circles around her anklebone.
“I don’t know of any Rose Lark living in the city,” he said finally. Almost distantly. “But the Song Mage and his consort were … before my time. I can ask around. Aspen might know something. Her father used to be the Song Mage’s tailor.”
