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Afterrealisinghelostmost of his coin at the tavern the night before, Hawthorn was in a foul mood when the party readied to resume the journey to the Summer Court. He hardly knew why. It was his own fault, and he’d thoroughly enjoyed himself until he’d been dragged away.
Even that part hadn’t been awful. He quite liked it when Jules found him.
But for whatever reason, that thought didn’t help abate his mood. Nothing did. It didn’t help that the breakfast had been abysmal. It was far too hot, and the carriage was rocking relentlessly.
“Damn roads,” he seethed. “Could theybeany rougher?”
By the time they reached the palace, he was hot and headachy, his skin feeling bruised and sore. He pulled at his collar as though it were choking him.
Juliana stared at him. Not in the way she sometimes did when she didn’t realise he could see her, like he was water on a hot day. She stared at him in a blank, unreadable way.
He hated it.
“What?” he barked.
“Nothing.”
He’d visited the Summer Court before in his youth, although he could barely remember the young princess he was supposed to marry. The palace he knew to be beautiful, carved out of rock and pearl and seashell, open almost entirely to the elements, but nothing about the beauty reached him then.
He’d forgotten how hot it was there, like being trapped inside an oven.
He wasn’t permitted to rest. He and his mother were expected to open the ball that was being thrown in their honour. A quick splash in a basin and a fresh change of clothes was all he was allowed, which was just as well, as his clothes were stained with sweat.
When he joined Juliana out in the corridor, the headache had turned into a fierce pounding. He was regretting drinking the night before. Regretting everything, actually.
He almost tripped on the stairs, recovering less than a second before Juliana’s arm reached out to steady him. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine,” he muttered, pushing away from her.
He ignored the way the lights were stinging his eyes, ignored the fresh sweat gathering underneath his collar. Faeries rarely got sick, so he wasn’t familiar with the sensation. What else was he to think it was, other than drink and a rough journey?
He took his seat beside his mother. Wine was offered, but he refused even that. The thought turned his stomach.
Juliana frowned, but said nothing.
A girl asked to dance. He refused. Food was placed in front of him, but the mere sight made his insides churn. He barked at the server, insulting the offering.
“Curb your temper,” his mother hissed.
“How can I?” he spat, “when it’s hot enough in here to melt a furnace?”
At this, even his mother frowned. He tried to open his mouth to snap at her, but his tongue felt thick and rubbery. Theairfelt thick, too, like he was wading through cotton.
He stared at the goblet in front of him. He was sure he hadn’t drunk anything, and yet…
He felt like he’d been poisoned.
The room span, and he slid from his seat, not even feeling the weight of the fall, barely understanding anything that was happening around him.
He remembered looking up at his mother. He remembered that she shrank away from him, that her only son was falling, and that she let him.
Juliana hurtled towards him. Her duty, of course, nothing more. Screams and gasps echoed around the room as she examined his eyes, forced open his mouth, and sniffed his breath.
“Not poisoned,” she announced.
“Well, of course not!” his mother shrieked furiously. “He hasn’t touched or eaten anything!”
He watched Juliana’s throat bob as her fingers went to his doublet. She peeled it back, along with the sweat-soaked shirt beneath, revealing a black, purplish rash spreading across his chest.
