Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(86)
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.