“What I love—hell,whoI love—has never felt like mine, though. I’m never allowed to…”
Briar’s chest ached at that wordlove. A whole world of magic, yet nothing that could forge a new road that didn’t end in death or heartbreak forsomeone.
“I’ll show you.” Linden pulled his phone out and tapped through the trending tags on Alakagram. One of the first was #pityprince. Scrolling, each post critiqued the nature of Linden and Briar’s relationship, positing that it was a charity case—the prince and the pauper—a ruse to elevate Linden’s image from frivolous to philanthropist. They referred to Briar as “some nobody.” Among the comments, plenty of fans defended Linden,but these were answered with dismissive “bootlicker” accusations. Round and round it went. Briar could imagine what the gossip channels might say if they knew about his health, the curse, or Linden’s research.
“These are tame compared to the more outlandish conspiracy theories. There’s an entire website dedicated to the notion that my family are alien cannibals who devoured our relatives in order to sustain our power on Earth—becausethatis apparently more believable than losing everyone we loved to a terrible illness.”
Linden had never spoken about his other family members and the plague that took them. From the pinched look on his face, it was a subject which grieved him still.
“It was short-sighted not to warn you what a courtship with me might entail. Truthfully, I’ve lived alone in it so long that I forgot not everyone’s life is analyzed beneath a microscope. Or perhaps, selfishly, I was glad not to be alone in it any longer. I’m sorry to have exposed you—”
“Don’t apologize,” Briar said. “I’ve been called worse things than ‘pity prince.’ Who cares what they say? They don’t know you.”
Linden looked into his eyes. “But you do.”
Did he? Briar still felt they had a lot to learn about one another, but this was a change. A peek behind the curtain into Linden’s brilliant mind. Perhaps there was hope yet that Briar’s feelings could change.
He bumped Linden’s shoulder with his. With more confidence than he felt, he said, “We’ll prove them wrong.”
Despite his commitments, something else swiftly climbed to the top of Briar’s priority list.
Rowan’s visit, and Linden’s untimely interruption, replayed in Briar’s mind over and over, unhindered no matter how he distracted himself. Rowan hadn’t answered his texts, and normally he’d take that as a painful indication Rowan wanted space. Yet, containers full of food appeared on Briar’s doorstep, on top of the fabric shipment—neatly wrapped in cling-film—but Rowan was never there by the time Briar opened the door.
He had to apologize—not only because his mother would be rolling in her grave that he hadn’t yet, but because he kept tripping into a sinkhole of grief over hurting Rowan. This, and he wished he could have heard what Rowan had been about to say that night. Even though he felt sure it would only hurt more to know for certain what he’d lost.
So he bundled up in every jumper and jacket he owned to visit Rowan’s cottage.
It was too cold for the chickens to be out, but he heard aggressive clucking from the coop as he trudged up the snow-slippery path. Smoke curled from the chimney. At the door, he rehearsed what to say, bumping snow from his boots in a shivering tap dance. Finally, he knocked.
Thumping from inside, then the door opened.
And all Briar’s prepared apologies died on his tongue.
Standing in a housecoat and slippers was Rowan, only a decade younger.
“Your beard,” Briar said. “You shaved your beard?!”
Rowan reached to rub his disturbingly smooth jaw. “Ehm, yeah.”
“Why?”
“Just…” Rowan shrugged. He looked rough and sleepless, but he also looked like a baby. “Just thought I could use a—Briar, what are you doing here?”
Briar hesitated. Normally, he’d ask to be let in to have this conversation in private. Now, he wasn’t sure he could handle seeing the inside of Rowan’s home with its stupid, cozy fireplace and stupid, cozy furniture carved by Rowan’s stupid, lovely hands.
“I came to apologize.”
“You don’t have t—”
“No, I do. Rowan, I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you that I was never with Linden when I was with you. Not ever. I promise, it only just started.”
The calm in Rowan’s eyes flickered. “I… That’s good to know.”
“And I’m sorry you found out like that, too. It was horrible, and I’m horrible, and I understand if you need space. You don’t need to answer my texts or bring me food just because I’m ill and—”
“Briar… I’m your friend first. You were clear where we stood, and I—It doesn’t matter.”
“Itdoesmatter,” Briar said desperately. “It did.”
