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Faerie was made up of four regions: Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. The capital of Acanthia stood at the centre, and was blessed with the climate of all four seasons. This was never more apparent than in the palace gardens, where a fountain marked the centre of all Faerie. The grass around it shimmered with frost and bronze, gold and green, showing the exact point where the seasons shifted.
None of Acanthia resided in Winter. That court had fallen long ago to ruin. It was a snowy wasteland, reserved only for those banished from the other courts, a punishment so severe it had not been done for centuries.
Juliana still liked to walk the frost-covered gardens, to watch the snowflakes glitter on the trees, although she rarely went deeper, to where the trees grew dark and the snow deep and endless.
You could not stray into Winter accidentally. A sheer mountain stood between the gardens and the rest of the region, and the narrow passage between the two could only be opened by the immediate royal family.
It was safe. Everyone assured her.
But darkness lingered there, and for all that she was brave, there was something in the air beside those mountains she could not name, a chill that slithered along her spine, and Juliana feared anything she could not strike down with a blade.
She walked to summer instead, down to the lake, and upstream a bit to a more secluded spot. She ate the food she’d packed with her that morning, and stretched out along the bank, unbraiding her tawny-coloured hair to bask in the sun’s glow.
Although she had never lived in the mortal realm, she had heard the tales, how the world shifted round the sun, experiencing only one season at a time. How dull a place to live. She was glad she would never see it, even if—
No.She shook her head.No dark thoughts today.
She soon grew too hot, but it hardly mattered. It was a bright and glorious day, and no one was around. She stripped off her brown tunic, trousers, boots and shirt, left them behind a bush (once Hawthorn and his friends had stolen her clothes) and dived into the lake. The cool waters shimmered over her skin like a sheet of blue satin.
Perfect. Heavenly.
Who would ever want to live anywhere else?
For an hour or two, she swam and floated, occasionally leaping out to bask on a rock. The need todosomething quickly abated (and anyway, swimming was training). She could have stayed there forever.
Footsteps sounded along the bank. Juliana looked up, judging the distance between the intruder, herself, and where she’d left her sword.
Silly, really. She ought to be safe here, especially with no Hawthorn to guard. No one was going to try and assassinateher.
“Are you sure, Jules?” Hawthorn had said to her once, when she’d voiced a similar opinion. “You have a lot of highly undesirable traits.”
“I do, Prince Prickle, to be sure,” had been her retort. “Yet only one of us is wearing a sword.”
Juliana groaned again as she swam closer to her weapon.
Stop. Thinking. About. That. Prince.
As she drew closer to the bank, the features of the intruder became clearer. Dillon, a squire, friend from childhood, and one-time paramour.
And Hawthorn’s relief guard.
“Dillon?” she questioned.
Dillon bristled, turning swiftly on spot. “Ah, Juliana.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I, um, well…”
“Spit it out!”
“I’m sorry!” Dillon cried, practically weeping. “He gave me the slip!”
Juliana sighed. Poor, sweet, useless Dillon.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ll deal with it.”
Almost three years ago, when she’d first come into Hawthorn’s service, the two of them had struck a deal; he would never go anywhere without telling her.
