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It occurred to Juliana that the hut she’d shared with him was on the route back, and it would be sensible to stop there for the night, regardless of how much the thought pained her. He had tarnished the walls with his betrayal. She didn’t think she’d reach it by tonight; her side was giving her more grief than she cared to admit and the terrain was far from easy.
Something snapped behind her.
Juliana wheeled round, not drawing her sword. The woods were filled with noises. No one was close by. Any number of critters could have caused the noise, and yet—
There was somethingheavyabout the sound, not easily dispelled or attributed to a small, light-footed creature.
She could ask Hawthorn to check, of course, but she didn’t want him to think she was paranoid.
She moved onwards, deeper into the woods, the sun turning the blood-red leaves orange and gold in the fading light. She quickened her gait, knowing what was ahead of her—and still not entirely convinced she wasn’t being followed—but an hour later, she slowed down again. The sun had almost set, she was losing light, and there was no point trying to make it through the valley before nightfall.
Between the Redwood and her old home was a rocky valley that seemed completely benign in the daylight. Only when the moonlight reached it did it become something else. The Valley of Memories, a place that conjured perfect illusions of memories, both good and ill—although it tended to be the latter.
The ones you’d rather forget.
Her father had taken her there for training a few times before, although he’d never entered it with her after dark. He’d pointed out the bones of the people driven mad there, lost to their memories, their dreams of yesterday so potent that they’d starved waiting for them to return.
There were all sorts of stories about how the valley came to be—stories of grief-stricken faeries searching for a way to see their loved ones again, or vengeful spirits who’d never passed over, or that it was the graveyard of an ancient and powerful race, or even that it simplywas.A thing that had always been, old as magic itself.
Juliana didn’t need to know the story. She just needed to know to avoid it.
She set up camp before the entrance, trying to enjoy the sunset, ignoring the dark chill creeping into her bones and the strange, wriggling sensation that she was being watched. She ate some of the food Mabel had given her and sipped at a potion that would help her sleep.
She debated not using it. She didn’t want to be defenceless. But she had been informed the potion was also a restorative, and she had no desire to sit in silence any longer. Besides, she or Hawthorn could watch her sleeping form.
She drifted off to sleep.
Hawthorn was right beside her when she woke.
“Evening,” he said, staring up at the sky. “It’s a beautiful night.”
Juliana stared up at the sky. She could make out little but the inky blackness and a fragile handful of stars, the moon hidden behind a cluster of trees. “Describe it to me,” she said.
“I’m no astrologer,” he admitted, “or a poet.”
“So I noted,” she said, grinning.
Hawthorn paused, as if unsure of her meaning, before his eyes widened with realisation. “You read my notebook.”
“Haven’t quite finished it,” she admitted, “although I think I’ve committed one of your poems to memory. How did it go again?My lady walks with beauty—”
“Please don’t,” he said, covering his face with his long-fingered hands. “Unless you plan to stab me afterwards.”
“And prove you correct? No chance.”
He shook his head. “I am entirely unused to you laughing and I really wish I wasn’t the target of it.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. I liked it. It made me laugh. Quite the feat.”
Hawthorn dropped his hands and lay back against a nearby log. “Yes, I think that might only be the sixth time I’ve heard you laugh.”
“You’ve actually been counting?”
“I have,” he said. “The first time was when I tried to charge Count Ulfred and ended up falling flat on my face in the mud. Don’t think I didn’t notice that.”
“I’m surprised you noticed anything, with all that mud…”
Hawthorn smiled, listing the rest, little moments she’d long since forgotten that he’d clung to, folded away like a summer flower in a scrapbook. “And that’s number six,” he said, his voice oddly whispery as his hand brushed her cheek. “That smile…”
