Elm slept the day away. He might have rolled over onto his stomach and slept through the night as well, but the echoing clamor of dinner in the great hall swept up the stairs. He woke with a start, heart pounding, sweat on his brow and chest, certain there was something he must do—something he’d forgotten.
Hawthorn. He ripped the blankets off. Ravyn and Jespyr and Emory might be gone, but Elm was far from aimless. He’d no desire to twiddle his thumbs and wait for his father to christen him heir—he had a promise to keep. A Maiden Card to find.
He stripped and scrubbed himself clean with cold water, wondering with a shiver what would happen if the King sought to kill Ione Hawthorn before they found her Maiden Card. Would she die? Or would the Maiden’s magic heal her, even from a fatal blow?
His stomach knotted at the thought.
He left his chamber in a fresh black tunic and hurried down the corridor, gnashing his teeth against the raucous sound of court wafting through the castle. He knew what he would find in the great hall. Men, slipping Providence Cards between their fingers, talking too loudly of magic and money and Card trade. Mothers, ready to thrust their daughters onto his arm. His own father, grunting into his goblet, surveying his court, as if everything he held in his pitiless green eyes was owed to him.
“You look like you’re about to hurl yourself down those stairs, Prince,” a voice called from behind.
Elm’s hand crashed into his pocket. He tapped velvet only twice before his brain caught up with his fingers. “Spirit and trees, Hawthorn, you have to stop doing that.”
Ione stood half in shadow, half in light. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’d thought you’d heard me.”
Her hair was fastened in a tight knot at the nape of her neck, and someone had given her a new dress. It was dark, grayish-blue, the color of deep, icy water. It hugged her poorly, marring the shape of her curved body. The fabric bunched at her neck, secured by a gray ribbon just below her jaw, collar-like.
Two figures emerged out of shadow behind Ione. They weren’t the same sentries from her chamber door last night. They stood too tall—too broad—to be castle guards. And, unlike the castle guards, when they beheld Elm, they didn’t cower.
Destriers. Allyn Moss and, to Elm’s bottomless chagrin, Royce Linden.
“Gents,” Elm said, offering them a mocking bow.
They lowered their heads in reply. Moss’s eyes dropped. Linden’s didn’t.
“They’ve moved you to the royal wing, I see,” Elm said to Ione. His gaze returned to the Destriers. “And you are—”
“Miss Hawthorn’s guards,” Linden replied.
“Not anymore. I’ll see to that.”
The Destriers exchanged a glance, and Linden’s voice hardened. “The King wants a keen eye kept on her, lest she try to escape.”
“I have two eyes, and they’re keen enough.” Elm pulled his Scythe out of his pocket, a quiet threat. “You’re dismissed, Destriers. Enjoy your evening.”
Moss hurried down the hall. Linden’s pace was slower. He muttered something that sounded like bloody git as he passed, his eyes narrow as they darted between Elm and Ione.
Ione watched him go. Her face conveyed little, but Elm searched it anyway. When she caught him looking, he fixed his mouth with a lazy smile and offered her his arm. “I should warn you, I’m a horrid dinner companion.”
Ione’s hand pressed into his sleeve. The smell of her hair—floral, sweet—filled his nose. “That makes us a pair.”
They walked in silence to the grand stairwell. The steward opened his mouth to announce them, but was quieted by a flick of Elm’s wrist. Still, heads turned in their wake. Conversations went quiet as Elm and Ione—whom they all still assumed to be the future Queen—strode down the stairs. There were smiles, bows. Elm returned none of them.
Neither did Ione.
Elm peered down at her dark, shapeless dress. “Insulted the tailor, have we?”
“The tailor?”
“Your attire.” His gaze swept down her body. “It’s…it’s a bit…”
Ione’s voice went flat. “Please, continue. I live and breathe to hear your opinion of my gown, Prince Renelm.”
“If you could even call it that.” Elm plucked at the ribbon along her neck, his finger grazing the underside of her jaw. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
“All my dresses are back at Hawthorn House. Your father sent this one to my room.”
“With his two dimmest Destriers in tow, I see.”
Ahead, music swelled in the great hall, the climax of a jig. “Then your ploy during the inquest was a success.”
“To a point.” Elm leaned down, his voice in her ear. “My father wishes to keep everything under his thumb. Including you.” He grimaced. “And, more effectively, me. We’re to pretend nothing happened—speak nothing of your cousin or uncle or father—and certainly nothing of Hauth.”
Ione raised her brows. “What excuse am I to give for my betrothed’s absence?”
“Hauth is ill, but recovering.”
The great hall was loud, the King’s court well into their cups. Some remained seated while others gathered in groups, swaying to the music. Voices clamored against stone walls. Cheeks flushed and clothes shifted from dancing, the hall rife with forfeit sobriety.
The King’s table was lifted on a dais similar to the one in the throne room. From it, green eyes watched. When Elm faced them, he noted the demand, expectancy, and annoyance stamped across his father’s face. He knew what the King wanted. On his right side, in the seat that had only ever been Hauth’s, there was a vacancy. An empty chair.
The High Prince’s chair.
Elm pinned Ione’s hand against his arm. There was no way in hell he was going up there alone.
She scowled down at his hand. “What are you—”
“One last stipulation, Hawthorn,” he said through tight lips. He shot his father a void smile, pulling Ione with him to the dais. “If you want free rein of the castle, I am to be your chaperone.”
Her exhale was a hiss. When they stood before the King, chins tilting in stiff reverence, Ione’s eyes were so cold Elm felt a pinch of guilt for dragging her up there.
The King’s displeasure was poorly masked. Still, he offered a curt nod, eyes flickering to his court, aware of the eyes upon him. His gaze returned to Ione, bleary yet narrow, lingering a moment too long over her body—her poorly fitting dress. The corner of his lip twitched.
In that moment, he looked all the world like Hauth.
Elm slammed his hand into his pocket. Only this time, the Scythe’s velvet edge did nothing to soothe him. But three taps—three taps and he could make his father roll his eyes so far back into his head he’d stop seeing straight. His finger twitched against the red Card’s velvet edge, the idea headier than any wine.
Ione merely held the King’s gaze, the frost in her eyes shifting to disinterest. She yawned.
“Sit,” the King barked at them.
The only empty chair was Hauth’s. On its right sat Aldys Beech, the King’s treasurer, along with his wife and son.