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“I might have,” she admitted. “Did you?”
“I had a toy horse called Mr Neigh-Neigh,” he confessed. “Think I still have him somewhere, actually.”
Juliana snorted. “I find that so hard to believe.”
“And yet it is the truth.” He sighed again, shaking his head. “I think I shall forever envy mortals their ability to lie and pick and choose what they want to believe.”
“Really?” She half-opened an eye, unnerved to find him staring down at her, or perhaps glad. She wasn’t sure. “I think I shall always envy the fact you can only speak the truth.”
Hawthorn lay his head down next to her. She pretended not to notice. “You can speak the truth to me.”
But I can’t,she whispered inwardly.Not to anyone, and certainly not to you.
“Maybe someday I will,” she told him instead.
She could feel his smile brimming in the space between them. “I daresay that’s probably another lie,” he said, in that velvety-smooth voice of his, “but I will take it.”
“Goodnight.”
The softness in his voice increased. “Sleep well, my knight. Stay safe on your travels. I would prefer you in one piece when you return to me.”
Themorningafterthefirst, dreadful night of faerie fever, Hawthorn woke hot and exhausted, mouth glued together, headache raging. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t.
A hand reached out to steady him, larger and rougher than Juliana’s but gentler, too. A vial was placed to his lips. Not caring at this point if it was a poison sent to finish him off, he guzzled the whole thing down.
“Steady on, now, there’s a good lad,” said a rough, gravelly voice. “You’ve had a rough night of it. Take it easy.”
Hawthorn opened his eyes. A brown-haired, broad-shouldered mortal man was staring down at him. There was something in his face that reminded Hawthorn of another, prettier one, but it was nevertheless somewhat of a disappointment. “Ser Markham.”
The knight smiled. “Good morning, Your Highness.”
Hawthorn blinked blearily around the room. He couldn’t quite see into the next one, but it seemed quiet. “Where’s Jules?”
“My daughter, Juliana, is currently enjoying a well-deserved break. I am here to watch over you in the meantime.”
Hawthorn could think of nothing to say to that, so he didn’t.
“How are you feeling, Your Highness?”
He appreciated the question, although it was unusual to him. Faeries didn’t like asking it. There was no room to lie. “Like a barrel of festering apples,” he admitted, before trailing off into another coughing fit.
Markham raised a goblet of water to his lips, holding him as he drank.
“Your bedside manner is better than your daughter’s.”
“Yes, well, I was raised in the mortal realm. Juliana isn’t used to illness. Don’t judge her too harshly.”
The knight looked at him like he expected Hawthorn to say something. He didn’t know why. He barely had the energy to drink, let alone partake in conversation. The world seemed fuzzy and insubstantial.
“Pray, Your Highness, what do you think of my daughter?”
It was hardly fair of Markham to ask such a question when Hawthorn barely had the strength to string two sentences together, when he had no energy for tempering the truth in the way that faeries could.
“She is an excellent guard and you have every reason to be proud of her.”
“These things I know already,” Markham said stoically, “I am asking what you think ofher.”
“Markham, I have no energy for nonsense—”
