Hawke cleared his throat. “But it is the same, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“It took me a very long time to work up the nerve to go back to the cavern. I felt that way, too. Like the water surely must’ve turned muddy in my absence, dirty and cold. But it wasn’t. It was still as calm, blue, and warm as it always was.”
“Did you replace the sad memories with happy ones?” I asked.
A half-smile appeared in the sliver of moonlight cutting across his face as he shook his head. The lines of his face had relaxed. “Haven’t gotten a chance, but I plan to.”
“I hope you do,” I said, knowing that as a Royal Guard, it likely wouldn’t be possible for many years to come. The breeze tossed a strand of hair across my shoulders and chest. “I’m sorry about your brother and friend.”
“Thank you.” He looked up to the star-blanketed sky and said, “I know it’s not like what happened here, to Rylan, but I do understand how it feels.”
I lowered my gaze to where his hand still held mine. My grip was loose and yet rigid, fingers sticking out instead of gripping. I wanted to curl the digits around his. “Sometimes, I think…I think it’s a blessing that I was young when Ian and I lost our parents. My memories of them are faint, and because of that, there’s this…I don’t know, level of detachment? As wrong as this will sound, I’m lucky in a way. It makes dealing with their loss easier because it’s almost as if they’re not real. It’s not like that for Ian. He has a lot more memories than I do.”
“It’s not wrong, Princess. I think it’s just the way the mind and heart work,” he said. “You haven’t seen your brother at all since he left for the capital?”
I shook my head. “He writes as often as he can. Usually, once a month, but I haven’t seen him since the morning he left.” Pressing my lips together, I curled my fingers around his, and my stomach dipped a little. He wasn’t holding my hand any longer. We were holding hands. To a lot of people, that would be nothing. Some would probably even find it silly, but it was huge to me, and I cherished it. “I miss him.” I lifted my gaze, discovering that Hawke was looking down at me. “I’m sure you miss your brother, and I hope…I hope you see him again.”
His head tilted slightly, and his mouth opened as if he were about to say something, but then it closed. A moment passed, and he lifted his other hand, catching a strand of my hair. I sucked in a startled, sharp breath as a wave of shivers followed the glide of his knuckles across the bare skin above my chest. Those shivers didn’t stop there. They traveled down to below my breasts and lower.
Flushed, I dropped his hand and stepped back, turning away. My pulse thrumming, I clasped my fingers together. Was it normal to have such a strong response to a brush of the skin? I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t imagine that it was. I took a few steps, searching for something to say. Anything.
“I…” I cleared my throat. “My favorite place in the garden is the night-blooming roses. There’s a bench there,” I rambled on. “I used to come out almost every night to see them open. They were my favorite flower, but now I have a hard time even looking at the ones cut and placed in bouquets.”
“Do you want to go there now?” Hawke asked, no more than a foot behind me.
I thought about it, about the silky black petals and the deep violet blooms of the jacaranda trees…and the blood that had pooled on the pathway. The way it had filled the cracks in the stone reminded me of a different night. “I…I don’t think so.”
“Would you like to see my favorite place?”
I glanced over my shoulder as he came to stand by my side. “You have a favorite place?”
“Yes.” He extended his hand once more. “Want to see?”
Knowing I shouldn’t, but somehow unable to stop myself, I placed my hand in his. Hawke was quiet as he led me around the fountain and down the main path. It wasn’t until he veered off to the left where the mild, sweet scent of lavender filled the air, that I knew where he was leading me.
The willow.
At the very edge of the southern side of the Queen’s Garden was a large, several-hundred-year-old weeping willow. Its branches nearly reached the ground, creating a thick canopy. In the warmer months, tiny, white blossoms clung to the leaves.
“You’re a fan of the weeping willow?” I asked as it came into view. Several lanterns hung from poles outside the willow, the flames still inside the glass enclosures.