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“Seventy?”
A shake of the head.
“Eighty? Just tell me already.”
“Over one hundred. The more powerful the fae, the slower they age, and my Hawke is… well, quite blessed.”
A hundred. One deep breath after another fills my lungs as I watch the horses trot across the field, trying to process my racing thoughts. He’d have been late double digits when they met then, and yet he still looked so young.
Magic linked to age, how—
My hands tighten on the edge of the bench. I snap my gaze to Uncle Mark. “Then Sigurd is…”
“Older than Hawke by a few years. They’re close in age for fae.”
I leap to my feet.
When he talked about things happening years ago, about Evelyn dying years ago, it could have been decades. Or a handful. Who even knows how beings who can live so long measure time?
“Wren?” Mark says.
“I had no idea. I thought he— I mean, he looks young. They all do. And—I…”
He gives me a knowing grin. “You like him?”
“Uncle Mark.” I roll my eyes and give him a look that says he should know better. “He’s a king. A fae. And I plan to get out of here as soon as I can.”
Mark shrugs, but it’s the worst show of apathy I’ve seen. Clearly a fae’s inability to lie doesn’t extend to body reactions. “He’s quite interested in you. More than any human or fae I’ve seen.”
The sun overhead has nothing on the fire burning in my chest and creeping up my neck. “Nonsense.” But all I can think about is last night, the warmth of his breath, the way his closeness nearly turned me into a puddle of need and desire. Our almost kiss. I bury my face in my hands. “Argh.”
Uncle Mark stands, flexing his shoulders. “He may be my king now, but if I need to tell him to keep his hands to himself…”
I shake my head. No sense getting him in trouble. “I’ve got it under control.”
Maybe.
Sort of.
“Evelyn,” I say. “Do you know her?”
“Ah, so he told you about her?” He sits and pats the bench next to him.
With heavy feet, I drag myself back. “Not really, other than to say he loves her? Loved her?” I wave my hand in the air. “And apparently, I look like her. Do I?”
“I wouldn’t know. Hawke says your coloring is similar, he thinks, though he can barely remember her. Hasn’t seen her in over sixty years.”
“What!” I shriek.
The horses look my way. At least they don’t go running off.
“Sorry,” I say with a wince and drop my voice. “I was under the impression the war he almost started—because of her, I understand—was recent.”
Mark nods. “Hawke was furious, to say the least. Sigurd didn’t tell him his true intentions beforehand. Hawke would have cautioned against his actions, of course. He’s often the voice of reason with his cousins.” Pride rings in his voice. “Fae grudges run far deeper than human ones, and King Sigurd is a bit mercurial. He tries not to be, I think. I do enjoy his company most times, but he had a difficult upbringing.”
“A king? With a difficult upbringing?” I nearly snort. Oh yes, I’m sure being a prince comes with so many difficulties. A castle, plenty of food, no worries about money, schooling, how to pay the rent…
My lips purse. What would he know of difficult?
