The ties of Blunder are strong. Family, magic, kingdom. They hold us together, guiding us,
like the sisal ropes we leave in the mist to find our way home. One is blood, the other salt, and the last stone. Keep all three and do not let go.
The ties of Blunders are strong.
The horses did not slow to an easy pace until we were a mile away from Stone, just beyond the first hill. Only then did the eerie echo of Equinox disappear beneath the clamor of the Yew carriage.
It had not been an easy farewell. My aunt had clung to me, fresh tears in her eyes, though I’d promised we would be together again soon. My uncle had pulled her away, muttering something about it being a miracle the Yews even knew I existed, let alone wanted to facilitate a courtship with their eldest son. They left to retrieve Ione, but I did not linger to say goodbye. I could not lie to my cousin, not about the Yews, not about the horrid taste her betrothal to Hauth Rowan left in my mouth.
And I could not face her new appearance under the light of the Maiden Card, so changed from the Ione I’d grown up with.
The Yews had fared no better. Emory had spit up more blood and sobbed, inconsolable, when he finally remembered why he could not come with us. Elm volunteered to stay and comfort him, the Scythe the best tool in their arsenal to help get the boy the rest he desperately needed.
I sat in silence, the country road from Stone to town bumpy, the hour somewhere between midnight and dawn. I felt drained—tired and alone, the jostling of the carriage making it impossible to rest. When I reached into the
darkness, I felt for the Nightmare—searching for something familiar. He was there, curled up like a cat in the corner of my mind, quiet.
Across from me, Jespyr put her head on her mother’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Fenir sat on her other side, gazing into the blackness outside the carriage window.
I bore the misfortune, orchestrated no doubt by his sister, of sharing a bench with Ravyn. We sat in frosty silence, pressed as far away from one another as the carriage width would allow. I did not look at him. I had not looked at him since we’d left the King’s gardens.
But that did nothing to erase the anger I felt, unbidden and unexplained, toward the Captain of the Destriers and his heavily warded secrets. Neither could it erase the memory of his fingers laced with mine—the way the tepid garden air caught in my throat when he pulled me close.
I heaved a rattled sigh to dispel the unwelcome fluttering in my chest. Morette looked up at me, mistaking my restlessness for concern. “Our home is old and strange,” she told me, her voice warm. “But Castle Yew is safe. You’ll be comfortable there.”
No one spoke the rest of the way. By the time the wheels struck cobblestone, I was pinching myself to stay awake.
The carriage jerked to a halt.
I stared into the blackness. A wrought-iron fence surrounded a castle at the top of the hill. Behind it stood a statuary, the statues and hedge maze shadowed under the ominous height of ancient yew trees.
Fenir pulled a skeleton key from his belt, unlocking the gate, holding the iron open just long enough for the carriage to slip inside the grounds.
Angels and gargoyles stared down at me from their places in the statuary. I shuddered, recalling how often my aunt had told me Castle Yew was haunted.
We quit the carriage. When we got to the tall, fortified door, Fenir banged three times with an open palm on the ancient oak.
His steward greeted us, opening the door wide and beckoning us inside. “I was expecting you sooner,” he said, shadows dancing across his face in the dimly lit castle.
“We had trouble with Emory,” Morette said, her voice heavy.
The steward turned to me. He was a round man, no taller than I, stout, with heavy gray eyebrows that hovered over wide, focused eyes. When he
smiled, his mustache twitched. “Welcome to Castle Yew, milady. My name is Jon Thistle.”
I tried to return the smile, but it came out a yawn. “Elspeth.”
“You must be exhausted,” Thistle said. “Allow me show you to your room.”
The castle door closed with a slam. “I’ll take her,” Ravyn said. He reached for a nearby candlestick and lit the wicks, waiting a moment for the flame to catch, shadows flickering across his features—brow and nose and jaw sharp in the dim light. Eyes narrowed and cold.
He moved through the hall, past the slumbering hearth to the long, winding stairwell, once again leaving me no choice but to follow him.
I trailed him with heavy steps, shooting daggers into his back. I wanted to shout, to break the glass of his control. But I could not find the words. The day had stolen them. And the night had buried them.
Weariness was king, and I his servant.
Ravyn took me down a dark corridor with jumping lanterns and strange, unnerving portraits to the last door in a long row. The Nightmare sniffed the air, tapping his teeth together as I took in my surroundings. His pupils flared, easing the darkness of the castle.
We stopped in the middle of a long hall of rooms. Ravyn opened a door, the hinge creaking its welcome. I stepped into the room, gray moonlight seeping through the window. I turned to close the door, but the Captain remained at the threshold, his brow strained.
My voice was sharp. “Anything else?”
He ran a hand over his jaw and shook his head. “It was not my intention to be unfeeling, Miss Spindle,” he said, a bite to his words. “I’ve had to pretend for so long, hidden parts of myself—my magic—so deep, I’ve forgotten how to talk about them.” His eyes met mine, searching me for something I could not name. “Can you understand that?”
I could. Better than most. Hadn’t I hidden my ability to absorb Providence Cards from Ravyn from the very start? Hadn’t I lied to his family and told them I could see Providence Cards when, in truth, the five- hundred-year-old monster in my head was doing that for me? I carried my own lies by omission, kept my own secrets. Dark, dangerous secrets.
Which perhaps was why Ravyn Yew enraged me so deeply. It was easier to hate him for being secretive and dishonest than admitting I hated myself
for the same reasons.
But I could not tell him that. I could hardly say it to myself.
I stepped forward, forcing Ravyn out of the room, feigning a civility I did not feel. “Your house seems very private—fixed at the edge of town, so close to the woods. Far from wagging tongues.”
Brow furrowed, Ravyn’s eyes dragged across my face, as if I were a book written in a language he could not decipher. “And?”
It felt good, watching him struggle to read me. He’d wounded my pride. And now, my pride called for blood. “It relieves the burden of a pretend courtship—which, as I understand, is abhorrent to you.” My smile did not touch my eyes. “Here, away from the gossip, we needn’t pretend to be anything we’re not.”
Ravyn’s eyes did not leave my face. If my words had stung him, his stonelike features bore no tell. He leaned forward. “And what are we, Miss Spindle?”
The intensity of his gaze sent me back a step. “Nothing,” I said. Then, for spite, “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Something flared in Ravyn’s gray eyes. Not anger—but just as strong. For a moment, strain broke across his fixed expression. His fingers flexed along the candlestick, his shoulders rigid—his body tense, and honed entirely on me.
But he said nothing—offered no explanation, no denial.
His silence held an edge. It cut at my insides, a bitter sting. In my attempt to wound him, I had only injured myself. “That’s what I thought,” I snapped, slamming the door in the Captain of the Destriers’ face.
The dream was a ghost, and when I woke, it slipped away, vanished on chill air that had settled into my room during the night. I wrapped myself in blankets and tried to go back to sleep, but there was no peace to claim, and I lay there fretting, cold and worrisome, afraid of what the day might bring. Afraid, yet filled with anticipation.
I’d slept in my Equinox dress. When I sat up, there were lines in my
arms were the fabric had dug into my skin.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn. But a rhythm inside me told me it was long past daybreak. I sat up and looked around, bleary-eyed. “A little help,” I said aloud.
He didn’t answer at first. Can’t you do it yourself?
“And deny you the pleasure of gloating over my helplessness?”
The Nightmare snorted. Then, as if snapping a switch in the back of my head, my pupils widened like a cat’s, revealing the shape of the room—the contours in the furniture—the dimmest hints of light slipping out from beneath the curtains.
I had not taken much note of the room last night, collapsing onto the bed and resigning to sleep the moment I’d slammed the door in Ravyn Yew’s face. My chamber was small but ornate, the furnishings elegant—the bed frame engraved with a delicate, swirling design. The chair in the corner was upholstered with a green-and-gold brocade. An eagle was carved into the mahogany mantel, its beak parted and its talons curled. The drapes were a rich crimson, and the carpet had been woven into an elaborate landscape, depicting a gilded knight atop a black horse.
I stared at the carpet, still half-lost to sleep, tracing the man on the horse. I could not see his face—the visor of his helmet was shut. It was his armor that caught me.
Even woven in wool, it was bright, gold, beautiful.
A knock on my door ripped me from my thoughts. Before I could answer, the door pushed open, heavy boots clomping toward me. “Elspeth
—Oh shit, sorry—I thought you’d be awake.” Jespyr.
I cleared my throat. “I’m awake.”
She paused. “And you’re just sitting here? In the dark?” Not exactly. “I was just getting up.”
Jespyr stepped into the room, dragging something behind her. When she drew the curtains, gray morning light flooding the room, she dropped the heavy object near the foot of the bed.
My trunk, filled with all the clothes I’d brought with me to Equinox. “Thank you.” I winced against the morning light and hung my legs over
the side of the bed. I gestured to the carpet. “Jespyr, who is that?”
Her eyes traced the man in armor. “Supposedly, he’s the Shepherd King.
We’ve plenty of his likeness in this castle, collected by centuries of Yews.”
I frowned, searching the wool. It felt like a forgotten dream, looking at the man with gilded armor. A reflection in water too murky to make out.
The Nightmare paced behind my eyes, guarding himself with a heavy, resolute silence.
“I’ve got something else for you,” Jespyr said, saying nothing to the fact I was still in yesterday’s clothes. She pulled an envelope out of her tunic pocket. “It arrived this morning.”
By its hurried scribbles, ink splattered across the parchment where she’d flung the quill, I’d recognized the handwriting immediately.
The letter was from my aunt.
I tore through the envelope, suddenly painfully homesick.
Darling Elspeth,
I’m happy, though a touch surprised, that you have found friendship with Ravyn Yew. He seems a strange, severe man. But the Yews are regarded well, and his mother, Morette, is a good woman. I pray you feel at home in their company, and that it is a warm and welcome change.
With you at Castle Yew and Ione and your uncle to remain at the King’s court, Hawthorn House will feel quite lonely. I find myself wishing I could set the clocks back—that we had decided not to attend Equinox and everything had remained the same. But those are just the ramblings of an old woman, set in her ways. If anyone deserves a change of scenery, Elspeth, it’s you.
Be safe, my love. And, if you will, humor an old woman—be careful in Castle Yew. There is old magic there.
She signed with a familiar Blunder motto.
Be wary. Be clever. Be good. Opal
I played with the frayed ends of the parchment, my heart heavy.
She’s worried.
We all have our woes, the Nightmare yawned.
It’s good I came here, I said. It was the right thing to do. Helping them find the Cards… helping Emory, helping myself, after so many years of hiding away with the Hawthorns… it was the right thing to do.
Are you trying to convince me or yourself?
The bed shifted, Jespyr landing with a plop at the foot. “Is it bad news?”
I shook my head. “A letter from my aunt. She must have written it after we left Stone last night.”
“Keeps a tight leash on you, does she?”
I shook my head again. “I don’t spend much time away from her. She worries.” Then, after a pause, “Everything’s changing. Ione’s engaged to a Prince. I’m here, plotting with your family.” I wrinkled my nose. “I’m worried about Ione—about my aunt—about getting caught. About everything.”
Flecks of gold in Jespyr’s brown eyes shone in the morning light, her irises full of fire, so different from the silver moonlight that shone in Ravyn’s and Emory’s gray eyes. Her dark hair was wavy, save a few wild curls that framed her face. It was cut shorter than the fashion and tied behind her neck by a strip of leather. Her tunic, a deep green with white trim, rested loosely along her lean frame.
When she smiled at me, unrestrained, I could not help but smile back.
“I worry, too.” She leaned back. “I worry about Emory. I worry about Elm and Ravyn and myself, that the King or Hauth or the other Destriers will discover our double lives. That we’ll be caught. I worry all the time.”
“How do you manage it?”
She shrugged, crossing a dirty boot over her knee. “I tell myself I am stronger than my doubts—that I’m good. Even if it doesn’t always feel that way.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but she seemed to catch her tongue. Her eyes widened and she stared at me, her gaze caught on my face.
I squirmed. “Jespyr?”
“Sorry,” she said, blinking. “The light in here is playing tricks on me.
For a moment your eyes almost looked yellow.”
It took all my years of practice to keep my expression steady. I blinked,
a nervous giggle rising in my throat. “How strange.”
But Jespyr didn’t seem to notice my discomfort. “But I’ve forgotten my purpose. Elspeth, I came to fetch you.”
“Oh?”
“Sylvia Pine and her daughters are traveling home early from Equinox. My mother spoke to Sylvia last night and invited them to stop for tea on their way back from Stone.” She stood, her steps light—excited. “You and I will join them.”
Trees, the Nightmare muttered, scraping his claws. Now we must play at tea with Blunder’s bottom-feeders? You said joining these fools would be dangerous. You said nothing of torture.
I made a face. “Are you close with the Pines?”
“Not at all.” Jespyr brushed a curl from her eyes. “Sylvia is an odious woman. Her daughters are more tolerable, if we manage to find something worth discussing.” She gestured to herself—her tunic and leggings, her muddy boots. “I don’t have much in common with them.”
“I don’t see what help I’ll be. I’m—erm—not much of a talker.” The Nightmare snorted in my ear.
“Ah, but this time,” Jespyr said, “we’ll have something to talk about.” To my blank expression, she laughed. “I keep forgetting you have no idea what’s going on.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “And whose fault is that?”
She gave a wry smile. “Right. Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “My mother invited Sylvia Pine because we believe it is very likely her husband, Wayland, owns an Iron Gate Card. Sylvia may be a tight-lipped crone, but her daughters, bless their simple hearts, are delightful chatterboxes.”
My brow perked. “And if they tell us where their father keeps his Iron Gate?”
She smiled that contagious smile. “Then we’re one step closer to stealing it.”
