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She was better at chopping wood, even if her side still stung. She hated how weak her muscles had become in just a few days, like she’d borrowed someone else’s body.
“Your strength will return,” Mabel assured her, without Juliana having to mention a single thing. Swinging the axe into the nearby stump had apparently been communicating her frustration as perfectly as words. “You could be dead, you know. Or laid up for weeks. Most mortals would be without a bit of magic.”
She spoke as if she wasn’t one of them, or perhaps she’d just been a witch so long she’d forgotten what mortality was like.
Then again, Juliana didn’t always count herself as fully mortal either. She’d grown up too close to faerie, caught it like a childhood illness she’d never fully shaken.
Or maybe it was Hawthorn who’d infected her.
She tried to shake the thought away, and battled through her list of tasks. Something else was bothering her, separate from her wound and her ineptitude. It wasn’t until later in the day she realised what it was.
If Hawthorn had spent all of yesterday in the library, who had set off Mabel’s wards?
If he hadn’t been there, who had she felt was watching her?
She shared her concerns with the witch, but she merely shrugged. “If anyone was wishing us ill, they’d be dead,” she assured her.
Juliana was not fully convinced.
Finally, she slunk exhausted into bed, her pack all ready for the journey home.
Hawthorn was there when she woke again.
“All set?” he asked.
“You know I am. How’s the capital looking?”
“Ladrien’s forces are still prowling it, but they’ve not found any of the mortals. Miriam has hidden them well.”
“Do you think they’re still there?”
He nodded, twirling his fingers, itching for the blackthorn ring he no longer wore. “I can sense them.”
“I would have thought Miriam would have quit the place once Serena appeared.”
“Maybe she knows something we don’t. Or maybe she’s just a stubborn mortal who refuses to give up even when she’s lost. Perhaps you have more experience in that regard than I do…”
“You’re so funny.”
“You know, I rather am. I wouldn’t be able to say it if it wasn’t true.”
“You wouldn’t be able to say it if youthoughtit wasn’t true,” Juliana insisted.
“You try saying it then.”
“I can lie.”
“You can. And sometimes well. But not about things like that.” He poked her middle. “Juliana, tell me I’m funny.”
“You’rehilarious,” she told him, gritting her teeth.
“Tell me I’m pretty—”
“You’re very pretty, Haw—”
His mouth slammed against hers, cutting her off. His fingers tangled into the bedclothes as he arched over her, mouth hard, lips silken. Her hands slid to his neck, stunned into softness.
Hawthorn pulled back, sliding off her. “Sorry,” he said. “Got—carried away. Wanted to… never mind.”
