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“It never hurts to speak like one of them,” Markham continued. “Just remember—wearen’tthem. And they aren’t us. Do not forget you’re mortal, Julie, no matter how he comes to treat you.”
Juliana wasn’t paying attention. She was too busy plaiting the horse’s mane and deciding what to call her, planning on where to ride her first.Cercis,she thought. A tree that grew in Autumn she was rather fond of. Yes, that would do nicely.
Markham patted her on the shoulder and headed off towards the barracks. “I’ll see you on your next day off.”
Juliana’s promised sword arrived by the end of her second week, wrapped in velvet and ribbons. She lay it on her bed after her shift was over, carefully peeling it from its trappings.
She inhaled sharply, half grasping at her chest.
She had asked for ‘fancy’, but had never expected Hawthorn to follow through, not to this degree. She assumed he’d find something practical with a little embellishment and declare it was fancy enough for a mortal guard. This… this was something else. The grip was braided leather, the pommel set with a large green stone, and the guard was fashioned in the shape of thorns, the pattern of which descended down the silver-black blade. When she dared to clasp it, she found it light yet strong, and sharp enough to slice through air.
Beautiful. Impossible.
Hers.
She didn’t mention it for days, half afraid it was a mistake, that it would be snatched from her the moment she let herself announce it. She didn’t even take it out to practise, instead admiring it from the safety of her room.
It was almost another week before she buckled it on and dared to stroll around the castle with it, and even longer before Hawthorn said one evening when they were alone in his chambers, “You’ve not yet mentioned the sword. Is it not to your liking?”
“No!” said Juliana quickly. “That’s not it, I just…”I’m trying to work out why you gave it to me. I’m trying to see the trick in it.
Because it had to be a trick, right?
But she didn’t voice this. Letting him know she was confused was giving him power. “I just need to find a name for it, first,” she lied. “A mortal superstition. Bad luck to thank someone for a nameless blade.”
“Is that so?” Hawthorn twirled a curl with a long finger. “And have you thought of a name for it yet?”
Juliana paused, biting her lip. “Briarsong,” she admitted. It was the first time she’d said it out loud.
“Pretty,” he agreed.
“It’s because it’ll make a lovely sound when I cut people down with it.” She unsheathed the blade and slashed it through the air. “Listen to it sing, isn’t it beautiful?”
Hawthorn blinked at her. “It’s terrifying, that’s what it is.”
“Do not fear the blade, Prince Prickle. Fear the one who holds it.”
“I assure you, I am mighty cautious of that too.” He stared at the pointed tip. “I’m half surprised you didn’t name it Princeslayer.”
“I’d have to kill a prince with it first.”
“Ha!” he barked. “Wait, why are you looking at me that way?”
It was the first time she’d made him look uncomfortable since she assumed her new position. She decided she rather liked it.
“Rest assured, I’ll never spoil this weapon with your blood, Dear Prince.”
“That is not particularly comforting, I must say.”
“I won’t hurt you,” she told him, “doesn’t mean I won’t threaten to.”
Hawthorn flashed her one of his rare soft smiles, devoid of any sharpness, any teasing. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was supposed to mean, and she was afraid to ask.
Finally,Juliana’sdreamsreturnedto her. She’d almost gotten used to the nothingness of sleep when she woke one morning with the memory of dancing in her head.
The dancing part had been fun. The weird, fuzzy image of her taking off her clothes in front of Hawthorn? Less so.
Disturbed, and more than a little confused, she tip-toed into Hawthorn’s room and into the adjoining bathing chamber. Technically, she was supposed to use the servants’ one next to the kitchens, but Hawthorn had swiftly declared this ridiculous and they’d been sharing ever since.
