Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(78)

He spun her, dipped her. “What, here?”

“Why not?”

“It takes focus to use a Nightmare Card. And you, in that dress—”

“How would you know what it takes if your father never had a Nightmare until Equinox?”

A coy smile lifted the corners of Elm’s mouth. He spun the Card between deft fingers, then—prestidigitation—disappeared it into his sleeve. “There are two Nightmare Cards, are there not?”

For a fleeting moment, a flicker of something—not quite warmth, but nearly—touched Ione’s scrutinous gaze. “The more time I spend with you, Prince, the less I seem to know you.”

“That’s not what I want.” Elm twirled her away, then pulled her back into his chest. “I want you to know me very well, Ione Hawthorn. Which is”—he dipped her again, bowing over her and speaking against her throat—“a rather horrifying feeling, if I’m perfectly honest.”

The apples of Ione’s cheeks rounded. Elm thought she might truly smile. He held his breath, waiting for it. But then she blinked, and her face was without expression, perfect and stone smooth. Unreadable—unreachable.

He was so sick of the Maiden Card.

The song ended on a flurry, and then Elm was leading them away, back to the other side of the columns, away from the crowd. He looked left and right, but Stone was crawling with courtiers. Even the gardens, even the stairwell.

He could take her to his room, or the cellar again. Somewhere private. But for a reason he wasn’t ready to tell her, Elm wanted them to be seen together—for people to get used to the heir of Blunder, leaning a whit too close to Ione Hawthorn’s face.

He dug through his pocket, retrieving his Scythe. He tapped the red Card three times, focusing on the orchestra. Louder.

The music swelled, instruments sounding with new fervor. “So that no one will hear us.”

Ione leaned against the column, autumn air flittering in through the garden door, catching in her skirt. “Will it hurt,” she said, her gaze dropping to the Nightmare Card, “when you enter my mind?”

“No. I wouldn’t have brought it if it did.”

She closed her eyes. “Go on, then.”

Elm tapped the Nightmare Card three times and fell beneath its salt tide. He’d only used Ravyn’s Card a handful of times, but it was enough like the Scythe to know how to urge the magic outward—into a person. He had no trouble fixating on Ione.

He pushed the salt over her. When he spoke, it was with a closed mouth. Hawthorn.

She jumped. “Should—” Her lips snapped shut. Should I think about Equinox?

Yes.

Ione drew in a breath. Let it out. And then Elm was not seeing her anymore, but her mind. Her memories.

He was Ione, and Ione was in the throne room, looking up at the dais. The King sat in his throne. On his right, tall and broad and unbroken, was Hauth.

“You have done your kingdom a great service, Tyrn,” the King said, an empty goblet in his left hand and the Nightmare Card in his right. “This Card has been lost for many years. Name your price and it shall be yours.”

A hand gripped Ione’s arm. She looked up at her father, but his gaze was on the King, wide with anticipation. He led her closer to the dais. “This is my daughter, Ione. She is amiable.” Tyrn pulled her in front of him and pushed her a step forward. “And unwed.”

Hauth’s posture went rigid. He glanced down at his father. But the King was caressing the Nightmare Card in such a way it was clear what his answer would be. Hauth scowled. “Not very pretty, is she?”

Ione’s entire body tensed.

“There are ways of dealing with that,” the King muttered. He looked up and spoke to Tyrn as if Ione was not there. “I’ll draw the contract myself.”

Ione’s memories jutted forward in a blur. Lights burst before her eyes, her ears buzzing with the sound of thunderous applause. She was looking out at the great hall, and everyone was on their feet, clapping. “Sit,” Hauth said in her ear. “Let them all get a good look at their future Queen.”

Elm could feel Ione’s heart racing. The apples of her cheeks rounded with a smile. “Should I say something?”

“No.”

“I’d like to.”

Hauth’s green eyes stalled on her face. He seemed confused, his expression caught somewhere between attraction and revulsion. His hand pressed into Ione’s shoulder, and he forced her to sit. “You needn’t say anything at all.”

Wine was poured. Ione drank and greeted well-wishers as they filed up to the dais. For every person she spoke to—every smile or laugh or hum in her throat—the attraction in Hauth’s gaze dissipated.

It was strange for Elm to look through the eyes of a drunk person while entirely sober. Ione’s goblet was filled for the eighth time, her vision beginning to tunnel. She was staring into the great hall, swaying in her seat—gazing at a figure seated along the table.

Elm. She was looking at Elm.

He was talking to Jespyr, a remarkably sour look haunting his face.

“Your brother wears a lot of black,” Ione said, her voice too loud. “For a Prince.”

“And old habit of Renelm’s,” Hauth muttered into his goblet.

“For what purpose?”