Page 68 of Hearts Lost

Ah, fuck. Did I pass out in the World’s End pub? Voids, that’s humiliating. I try to get both eyes to open, and the light in the room stabs into my eyeballs like an icepick. I slam them shut again.

“Drink this, sunshine,” someone says.

I groan at the sound of Rowan’s voice. Something thuds against the table next to my head. I reach for it without opening my eyes and wrap my fingers around the warm solidity of a heavy ceramic mug. I manage to drag my face off the table, part my lips, and take a few sips of scalding hot black tea. Then I crack my eyes open.

And this is not the World’s End pub. I blink as the room sways around me. It’s much, much smaller than the pub, for one thing. Three cloaks hang on hooks by the door, there appears to be a pair of wet socks in the middle of the floor, a fire crackles in the hearth, and the ceiling is painted in some weird pattern of white, yellow, red, and blue dots. The sound of murmured conversation drifts up from somewhere behind me.

Damn it, I know this place. Apparently, I passed out in Rowan and Phaedron’s house. At Rowan and Phaedron’s table. Hells, I don’t even remember coming to their house. A shiver crawls across my skin; I take another sip of tea to drown it. There’s the thud of footsteps on the floor, and Rowan settles into the chair opposite me.

“You were in rare form last night,” he declares, grinning.

My memories of last night are a tangled, blurry mess that I’d just as soon not examine, thank you very much.

“Fuck off,” I growl.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Rowan says, holding his hands up in front of his chest. “Is that any way to talk to the guy you puked on?”

Shit. I bring my hand to the bridge of my nose. I would really like to not remember what Rowan’s talking about, but it all comes back to me anyway and in exquisite detail. Rowan hauling me out of the door to the World’s End pub. Holding me up over a snowbank. Listening to me as I—

Oh, voids help me. I cried, didn’t I? I raise my eyes in horror. Rowan’s still smiling at me, but this time there’s something I’ve never seen before in his expression. It almost looks like pity. My gut flips, and for a heartbeat, I think I’m going to puke on Rowan for the second time in as many days.

“Breakfast is served,” a woman declares from behind me.

Someone slides a plate under my nose. Voids below, it smells good. There are beans, biscuits, a thick slab of bacon, and what look like scrambled eggs. Chairs slide back. Rowan’s brother Phaedron settles in next to me.

“Arryn made the eggs,” he announces.

“Under very careful supervision,” Arryn replies, with a smile that almost reminds me of Ithronel.

Arryn sits in the chair on my other side. It’s quite a small table. I feel pinched.

“I need to go,” I declare.

The three of them turn to stare at me. I push my chair back from the table, and that look on Rowan’s face sharpens. The look that can’t possibly be pity, because why in the nine hells would Rowan pity me? Voids below, he’s the low-born orphan who has to live in the Outer Ring.

“Look, Aloserin,” Rowan begins. “You gave me some advice once. I’m gonna throw it back at you.”

I frown while my stomach churns like it’s trying to reach out and grab breakfast with or without my help. I don’t remember ever giving Rowan anything, let alone advice.

“Get your damn life together,” Rowan says.

Ah. Right. Of course.

“Yes,” I say. “Well, thank you. It’s been—”

“Stop,” Phaedron says. “Listen to Rowan.”

I freeze. I’ve only ever known Rowan’s brother to be almost painfully agreeable, willing to do damn near anything if he thought it would earn him a position on the Royal Guard. He’s almost Rowan’s opposite, friendly, cheerful, and obedient whereas Rowan is surly, angry, and defiant.

But of course, that was before Phaedron lost his arm to the monster prince from the Kingdom of the Summer. My eyes drift to the empty sleeve on Phaedron’s right side, and then to the hard expression in his pale eyes, and I realize I’m nodding. But it isn’t Rowan who speaks next.

“The Kingdom of the Summer isn’t like here,” Arryn begins. “Positions in the Royal Guard, up there, they aren’t voluntary. Ithronel didn’t choose to serve Grathgore. She was forced to.”

“I know,” I say.

My voice sounds awful. I take another sip of tea to cover it up. Arryn looks at me with wide, dark eyes.

“I’m sure she was also forced to take those weapons,” Arryn says. “What she did, I don’t think she wanted to do it.”