By the third tap of the pink Card, the flawless—unearthly and unreachable
—Ione Hawthorn was gone. The real Ione was there in her stead.
Freckles. The first things Elm saw were her freckles. They were concentrated along the bridge of her nose, then sparse over her cheeks and brow and chin, a final few resting in the bowl of her Cupid’s bow. There was a vertical crease in the center of her bottom lip—lines in the corners of her mouth and eyes.
Smile lines, he remembered. This Ione smiles.
There was textured skin, some of it irritated, around her nose. Half- moon shadows beneath her eyes. Eyelashes were partially blond again, and the small gap between her two front teeth had returned. The hair along her brow didn’t fall with such unnatural elegance as before. There were tangles
—rogue curls. Disarray and imperfection. She looked so… human, like the girl he’d seen riding through the woods.
There were not enough pages in all the books Elm had read, in all the libraries he’d wandered, in all the notebooks he’d scrawled, that could measure—denote or describe—just how beautiful she was.
“There you are.”
The frost and indifference in Ione’s hazel eyes had vanished, vibrant colors of earth and fire and forest entirely unrestrained.
A small, fractured noise came out of her. She moved toward him but didn’t make it two steps before her knees buckled, and then Elm was catching her, holding her as they sank onto the floor.
Body shaking, eyes screwed shut, Ione opened her mouth against his chest. Her scream was silent at first, then so loud it filled Elm’s ears. Tears fell down her face and her breaths came in labored gasps, her lungs begging for air, denied again and again by her unending wail.
She’d endured a bartered marriage to Hauth, a brute, who’d gotten her drunk and used his Scythe on her—locked away her heart with three indifferent taps. He’d dragged her to the precipice of that window at Spindle House and pushed her to her death. She’d lain there in her own blood, staring up at the moon, thinking it would be the last time she’d see the night sky.
It tore at Elm, thinking she’d endured it all alone. That his stalwart opponent, the Maiden Card, had healed her so well she’d been spared feeling a single part of what had happened to her.
Until now.
Elm pressed his face into her shoulder, whispering the only consolation he could think to offer. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Her fingers dug into his tunic. Then she was pushing—forcing him away from her. When Ione looked up into his face, there was so much hurt in those hazel eyes Elm thought he might die.
She pulled farther back. “Give me a moment.” “Ione.”
She folded over herself—hugged her arms over her chest. “Go, Prince.”
Prince. Like his brother. Elm scraped a hand over his eyes, said, “I’m sorry, Ione,” and left.
He trailed his thumb over the Nightmare Card. When he got to Hauth’s room, he didn’t bother knocking.
It was late. There was only one Physician on duty, standing near the corner of the room, sorting tinctures and vials. He jumped when Elm entered. But the other figure—seated at Hauth’s bedside, did not startle so easily.
Linden watched Elm enter, his brow knit by a deep grimace. “What the hell do you want?”
Elm didn’t look at Hauth. There was no use breaking things that were already broken. But an old, familiar rage had crawled up his throat for every second he’d lived in Ione’s memories. He didn’t want to merely break things.
He wanted what the Shepherd King had gotten. The privilege of holding Hauth Rowan’s life in his hands and finding it forfeit.
Elm wrenched open the chest at the end of the bed—threw the Nightmare Card back into it. “He’s not worth it,” he said—to Linden, to himself, he didn’t know. “He’s not worth another moment of your time.”
He returned to Ione’s door—slid down the face of it and sat in a heap, listening to the sound of her cries through the wood. He made himself listen. Made himself feel it.
His hand slipped into his tunic pocket, searching for comfort along velvet trim. Elm pulled the Scythe out and examined it, flipping it through his fingers. Red—the Rowan Card. His savior. His crutch. Did he even know who he was without it? Did his father? Had Hauth?
Ione’s sobs carried through the door. Elm closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wood, his shoulders shaking as tears fell down his face.
 |
The door opened and Elm fell backward, hitting his head on the floor.
Ione looked down at him. With surprising strength she pulled him to his feet, then closed the door behind them and brought him to the bed.
Elm lay on his side and faced the wall, hollowed out. The mattress shifted and two hands wrapped around him. Ione pressed her body against his back, melding around him. Elm closed his eyes, tears he thought had all been spent stinging him once more. “Do you hate me, Hawthorn?”
Her arms tightened around him. “No, Elm. I don’t hate you at all.”
They slept. When Elm woke hours later, pale daylight shining in the window, Ione was still holding him. He memorized the map of her arms over his chest, perfect lines, she the stylus and he the paper.
Her voice fluttered past his ear. “Are you awake?’
He turned. Morning light kissed her hair, her ear, the high points of her face. Her eyes were swollen from crying.
Elm ran his hand across her cheek. “Ione.”
She pulled him until they were pressed together, her mouth tucked against the hollow of his throat. For a long while they did nothing but breathe, so close to one another their inhales and exhales matched, a slow,
steady rhythm. “When did you see me riding?” she said, her voice a gentle hum against his skin. “With mud on my ankles?”
Elm ran his fingers through her hair in long, tender strokes. “I was sixteen, maybe seventeen, patrolling the forest road with Jespyr. We were supposed to be watching for highwaymen, but we were playing cards. A horse went by. Faster than most riders go. You didn’t see us. You were laughing, a sort of whistling cackle.” He rubbed the nape of her neck. “I liked your laugh. Your hair.”
Ione was quiet a long time. Elm thought maybe she’d fallen asleep again. Then, “I thought you were beautiful. A beautiful, terrible prick.”
A laugh rumbled in his chest.
“When I was a girl, I imagined you belonged in a storybook—no Prince had any right being so handsome unless he lived on a page. But you weren’t charming like a Prince in a story. And you made it abundantly clear there was no one besides the Yews worthy of your time.” She tugged at his sleeve. “The black clothes didn’t exactly make you seem approachable. I didn’t know then that Hauth was… hurting you.”
Elm swallowed. “Was I rude to you?”
“That would have required you to speak to me.”
“I didn’t speak much. But I saw you—liked you.” He spoke into her skin. “You seemed without burden. So happy and free you were exquisite. I envied you.”
“You liked me… out of envy?”
His arm tightened around her. “I’m a rotten thing, Ione. I’m learning as I go.”
Another pause. “On Market Day, when Hauth sent those poor people into the mist, you stood up to him. Challenged him, in front of everyone. And I saw the same rage and spite for him that I was beginning to understand.” Her voice quieted, her tone confessional. “I envied you.”
She swallowed. “There’s so much of myself I haven’t shared with you yet. What Hauth did—all the feelings he stole from me. I’m bitterly angry.” “Then be angry, Ione.” Elm pressed his mouth to her forehead. “It looks
well on you.”
She made a small noise of approval, her words to him mirrored back at her. “I say spiteful things when my feelings are hurt. Hold grudges. And the highwaymen—I’m not sorry for what I did to them. Not even a little. It was
frightening and awful, and I’d do it again without thinking to keep you from getting hurt.” She took a rattling breath. “I think about how easy it would be to do horrible things if I felt I had a good reason.”
“So do I.”
“I liked that I might be Queen one day. I liked how the Maiden tempered things, how I stopped feeling regret and worry and fear. It felt a lot like power.” She tilted her chin up until their lips were almost pressed together. “Maybe you liked me that way, too.”
“I like that I can finally read your face, and that you’ve chosen to show it to me. You can tell me your terrible truths, Ione. I’m not going anywhere.”
Elm sat up, awake, hungry. And, for the first time in memory, happy the day was only beginning. “Do you still like to ride?”
|
They dressed quickly. This time, Elm made sure Ione had shoes and a damn cloak.
Fortified against the mist with their charms, they found Elm’s horse in the stable, then a chestnut-brown palfrey for Ione. When Elm handed her into the saddle, he caught himself wondering once more if the Spirit of the Wood did indeed dabble in the lives of men. If she’d pitied him that day he rode with Destriers to Hawthorn House. If she’d sensed all the rot inside him and gifted him, the ruined Prince, this moment with Ione to tide over his darkness.
They rushed out of the bailey and over the drawbridge. Wind blew Ione’s hair behind her like a thousand beckoning ribbons, and Elm let out a breath. He always felt washed clean, riding away from Stone.
Autumn was slipping, the frost slow to melt. Soon, it wouldn’t melt at all. They kept to the main road for a quarter of a mile, and then, so fast Ione had to jerk her reins, Elm veered his horse west, down an embankment. When they bottomed out, he took the path he’d long since memorized. Then, across a grassy plain, Elm unleashed his horse.
They cantered through the open field, parting the mist with their speed.
Ione spurred her horse—caught him until they rode neck and neck. Her
eyes were wide, yellow hair a storm. But just as Elm began to worry the speed was too much, she tilted her head back, deficient of all pageantry—
And laughed.
The sound rolled through her body into Elm, undoing his last brick, his last barb. Ione’s face was wide open, not a hint of ice or restraint. Her eyes were creased and her freckled nose wrinkled, the gap between her front teeth visible as she smiled. Elm took in the sight of her—memorized her— praying he could get to his sketchbook before the lines of her smile faded from his memory.
He doubted they ever would.
She must have felt his stare, because when Ione shifted in her saddle and looked at him, her gaze was expectant.
Elm reached over, snagged her reins. It was impossible to kiss on horseback, but he leaned over—brushed his mouth over hers—kissed her just the same.
Ione tugged the reins. When the horses stopped, Elm dismounted and reached up for her waist. She slid from her saddle into his grasp, crashing her mouth down upon his. “Thank you for this, Elm,” she whispered into his lips. “For everything.”
He’d never get used to how it felt, hearing her say his name. Heady, sweet, wistful.
They made it to a copse of trees before sprawling out in the grass, fumbling with one another’s clothes. Salt stung the air. Elm kept his charm woven tightly around his wrist and Ione wore hers on its mended chain around her neck.
They rolled, caged in each other’s arms. Elm pinned her to the ground and put a knee between her legs, guiding them open, whispering words of adoration into her mouth, words like warm and divine and I can’t fucking breathe when you look at me, Ione.
Ione’s hand slid beneath his undershirt and up his back, pressing into the lean muscles along his spine and shoulders—the places he’d taken beatings as a boy. When she freed him from his tunic, her eyes traveled over his bare chest, studying its contours. Fingers wove into his mess of auburn hair. Her voice was hushed, coated in awe. “You’re beautiful.”
“No. That word is only for you.” Elm leaned back and pulled her onto his lap like he had on the throne. Only now, there was no shadow forged of
rowan trees looming over them. There was fresh air, mist. Mourning doves cooed. A gossamer breeze came in waves. It draped itself over Elm, pushing the wild hairs along Ione’s forehead into his face. Everything was gentle, soft.
Delicate.
Elm found the knot at the end of her bodice. There would be no knife. No tearing of fabric. He took his time, his fingers slow as he loosened her laces.
Ione didn’t rush him. She was too busy memorizing his face. Running her fingers over it. Searching, measuring. When her bodice fell, dragging her dress down with it and leaving her bare to the waist, her hazel eyes were still on him.
“The way you’re looking at me,” he said, cupping her chin, “terrifies me.”
“Why?” She ran a hand down his neck, his chest, the line between his abdomen muscles. “Did no one ever love you before, Elm?”
“Not like this.” Closer. He needed her closer. “There’s never been anything like this.”
Elm lay on his back atop his cloak. He dragged Ione’s leggings off and she straddled him, light hovering over her yellow hair. He reveled in how warm she was, how perfect the weight of her was against his body, how delicious it felt when she freed him of his pants.
Her eyes went wide. She dropped her hand—measured him anew. “Elm.”
He hissed through his teeth and pressed his fingers over her lips. “Careful what you say. You’ll spend me too soon with that wicked mouth of yours.” He pulled her down, kissed her slowly. “I want this to last, Ione.”
She braced herself on his chest, and when they started, it was agonizingly slow. Elm watched her face, looking for pain, ready to stop the moment he saw any. But Ione eased onto him, hips tilting this way and that, finding her comfort, which became Elm’s comfort, too. Inch by inch, she descended. And every memory of pleasure Elm had ever carried fractured in his mind, replaced by this. By her.
He held her hips. When he arched up into her, Ione sucked in a breath.
He froze. “Did that—Are you—”
“You won’t hurt me. There won’t be any pain between us.” She dragged
her thumb over his bottom lip. Elm nipped it, and she smiled. “Unless we’re in the mood for it.”
“They’ll be time for all manner of sordid things, Miss Hawthorn. For now, just—” His voice quieted. “Just keep looking at me.”
When Elm started moving inside of her, he couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. Yellow hair was spilling everywhere and Ione’s face was flushed and so vulnerable, hazel eyes searching him, that he felt his chest constrict.
The slowness didn’t last. There was too much need—too much newness
—between them. Elm stroked his thumb over her sex, his fingers digging into her bottom and hips as he moved with her, caught between savoring the moment and the unsatiable need for more.
He reared up, grasping the back of her neck. “What do you feel, Ione?” Like a rush of wings, she sighed. “Everything.”
Elm thrust harder, dragging his mouth over her jaw, her throat. “I’m yours. Even if you won’t be Queen—I’m yours.”
Ione’s eyelids fluttered, her pace quickening. Elm palmed her breasts, meeting the hummingbird thrum of her heartbeat with his mouth. She fell back onto their clothes, pulling him on top of her, wrapping her legs around his waist. Her breaths came faster, laborious, and then she wasn’t breathing at all, tensing around him.
Elm looked down through a haze. Ione’s brow furrowed, her eyes still on him. She opened her mouth, let out a sharp cry—
Pressure, so much pressure, Elm felt every muscle clench, then powerfully unwind. His head crashed forward onto her breast. He bared his teeth, a curse slipping out—
And saw stars.
Ione folded him in her arms. When they’d stopped panting, they shared lazy kisses, pleasure-spent. And it was so heartbreakingly perfect, that moment with her, that Elm told her everything.
About his childhood, the death of his mother, the horrors of what happened after. About hating Hauth and his father. About wanting to die until the Yews took him in. He told her about becoming a Destrier. About Emory’s infection and his slow degeneration. About Providence Cards, and how the King had planned to spill Emory’s blood to unite the Deck.
About Elspeth. Her magic. The voice—the Shepherd King—she carried in her mind.
About the Twin Alders, and how Ravyn and Jespyr had gone to find it. And how Elm, the new heir, would do everything in his power to fight for them when they returned.
All while he talked, Ione stayed silent, her grip on him tightening. When he finished, she put a hand over his heart. “So that’s what you’ve been doing with all your time.”
“I’d be liar if I said I wasn’t damn tired from it all.”
“Thinking you could collect the entire Deck under the King’s nose, including a Card that has been lost five hundred years, is the most arrogant
—most Elm—thing I’ve ever heard.”
He chuckled, curling a strand of her hair around his finger. “I wasn’t the only mastermind.”
“What about my mother and brothers? The Spindle girls? I thought you’d know where they’d gone. But when I asked, with the Chalice—”
“It was important I didn’t know. That way, not even a Chalice could make me share their whereabouts.”
Her eyes widened. “You got them out?”
The Scythe was never far. Elm found it in his cloak pocket and moved it between his fingers, flipping it until the edges blurred. “Jespyr warned your mother and brothers, and I compelled the Spindles to flee. I tried to get you out, too. I had no idea you were at Hawthorn House. No idea what Hauth had done.”
Twin tears fell from Ione’s eyes. “Why?”
Elm sat up, took her face in his hands. “Because I don’t believe in it, Ione. Any of it. Five hundred years of Rowan law—it doesn’t mean a thing to me. Better we all dropped our charms and let the Spirit consume us than live in a place that punished people for magic not of their own doing. I’d rather Stone burned before I saw a woman and her children killed for hiding an infected niece.” He brushed her tears away. “Your family will be safe someday. I’m going to change things. I’m going to be the worst Rowan King in five hundred years.” The tips of his lips curled. “I might even enjoy it.”
Ione’s tears stopped. She was looking at him the same way she had when she’d called him beautiful. She pushed into him, arms wrapping around his neck. “Then let me enjoy it with you,” she murmured into his mouth.
The Scythe fluttered to the ground, utterly forgotten.
|
They decided to announce the marriage contract that night—to put a stake in the heart of pageantry and end the feasts a day early.
It was well after midday when they returned to Stone. Somewhere deep within the castle, a bell was tolling. Ione looked up at the tall, looming towers. “What’s that?”
Elm passed the groom the reins and took her hand. “I’m not sure.” Baldwyn wasn’t there to ask. Neither was Filick. A string pulled in
Elm’s chest. He thought maybe Ravyn had returned early.
Fingers laced with Ione’s, Elm took the stairs to the royal corridor and stepped into his chamber. A shadow rose in the corner of the room. It wasn’t Ravyn waiting for him.
It was Hauth.
