The other young man was taller than the friendly one, about the same height as Jacks. The tilt of his chin made her think he thought himself slightly superior, and a part of Evangeline could understand why. This young man was almost painfully handsome. The type of handsome that made her wonder if he was entirely human.
Normally, that was how she thought of Jacks, but in this rendering, Jacks looked human, not immortal. Evangeline had never considered the idea that Jacks had been human before, but if he was part of the Merrywood Three, then clearly he’d been human once. And being human looked good on him—or maybe it was just that he looked so happy.
In the picture, Jacks was tossing an ordinary red apple and laughing in a way that lit up his entire face. He never looked this happy now, and she couldn’t help but wonder what had changed.
“Little Fox!” Jacks knocked as he called her name through the door.
Evangeline startled and nearly toppled off the bed as he strode into the room. His resemblance to the picture was uncanny, and yet the feeling she got from looking at him now was entirely different. It was as if a sculptor had taken a dagger to who he had once been and carved out all the softness.
“You’re staring at me.” Jacks’s mouth curved up as he spoke.
Her cheeks instantly pinked. “You burst into my room.”
“I knocked and said your name and—” He broke off.
His eyes latched onto the book in her hands. They flared, dark silver. There and gone so fast, it could have been a trick of the light. Or maybe he had seen the picture, except the picture was suddenly gone. The pages of the book were blank.
The outside of the book was blank as well, all the golden script gone, making her uncertain as to what Jacks might have seen.
“Our carriage arrives in half an hour,” he said tightly. “Forget the sad stories and finish packing.”
Sad stories. If that’s what Jacks had seen, then clearly he wasn’t looking at the same picture she had seen.
“Wait.” Evangeline held up the blank page of her book as if the drawing might reappear. “I saw your portrait in this volume.”
Jacks’s blue eyes crinkled with laughter. “You’re seeing me in fairytales now. Should I be concerned you’re starting to form an obsession?”
“No,” she said stubbornly, refusing to be embarrassed. “It was you. You were one of the Merrywood Three!”
Jacks sighed, amusement turning to something like concern. “Whatever you saw in that book was a trick. The Merrywood Three died a long time ago, and I was never one of them.”
“I know what I saw.”
“I’m sure you do. But that doesn’t mean you can trust it. These stories, the pictures, they lie.”
“So do you,” Evangeline countered.
Although, as much as she hated to admit it, Jacks was right. This book in particular had just shifted its cover before her eyes—twice—and then its contents had disappeared entirely, which made what she’d seen more than a little suspect.
But if he was telling the truth, why had his knuckles suddenly gone as white as the apple in his hand?
PART II
An Unkindness of Stories
22
Jacks had the travel carriage of a villain. The exterior was smooth matte black, perfect for blending into dark alleys and shadows, yet it had just enough gold trim around the wheels and the windows to be unexpectedly tempting.
This was not the same coach they’d ridden in before, when she’d met with him under the misguided hope that he would remove the love spell he’d placed on Apollo.
Inside this carriage, there was plush black carpet on the floor, thick black velvet cushions on the benches, black lacquered panels for the walls, and more hints of gold edging the icy windows in a decorative pattern of swirling thorns.
Evangeline felt particularly bright, dressed in the pink velvet gown that she’d picked out last night.
Slaughterwood Castle was a full day’s journey to the east of Valorfell, and the farther she and Jacks traveled, the colder it became. The world outside the windows was a wonderland of white and ice and pale blue winter birds with wings that turned to frosted lilac when they flew.
She might have asked Jacks about the birds, or which part of the country they were now in, but he was asleep.
His golden head rested against the window, only moving when the coach went over a bump in the road. Trying not to stare—because she wouldn’t be surprised if he could sense it, even in his sleep—Evangeline went back to studying the sheet of clues that she’d found in Chaos’s library.