Their faces were close now. So close Elm could see the frayed threads along the collar where Ione had ripped her dress. They danced along her throat, her sternum, the swell of her breasts—moving with the rapid up-and-down tide of her breathing.
His eyes lifted to her face. She was watching him. And though her mouth bore no smile, there was a glimmer of satisfaction—of triumph—in her hazel gaze. “A kiss,” she murmured. “If you can prove you remember me before Equinox, I’ll kiss you. If you can’t—I get five minutes with your Scythe.”
When he found it, Elm’s voice was rough. “No kiss is worth five minutes with a Scythe. Not even from you.”
“One minute, then.”
The urge to reach out and snag her face, to press the tips of his fingers into her cheeks and watch her lips part for him, took considerable effort to banish. Elm caught Ione’s hand instead, slapping his palm against hers in a handshake. “Deal.”
No one was there to see them slip out of the yard into a servants’ passage. The long, winding corridors housed only shadows. For the time it took for them to reach the cellar, Elm and Ione were utterly alone, as if the castle belonged only to them.
“Please don’t be locked,” Elm muttered when they reached the door.
The handle to the cellar turned.
The hearth hadn’t been lit, and the dogs were elsewhere. Elm moved to the shelf, the space so familiar that, even half-drunk, he had no trouble finding a lantern and the fire striker.
The flame bloomed, too bright, then dimmer. Ione stood in the doorway. “What is this place?”
“Somewhere we won’t be overheard.” Elm headed back to the door. When he passed Ione, he made sure no part of his body touched hers. “Light a fire, will you? I prefer to be comfortable when I play games and win wagers.” He turned toward the stairs.
“Where the hell are you going?” she called after him.
The indignation in her voice made the corner of Elm’s mouth curl. “A Chalice, Miss Hawthorn. I’m going to fetch us a Chalice Card.”
The fire was alive and breathing by the time Elm got back. Ione sat on her knees, stoker in hand, tending the flames. There was soot on her fingertips. “You took your time.”
Elm’s arms were full. A Chalice Card, a new flagon of wine, a silver cup, a loaf of olive bread stolen from the kitchens. The last item was from the library—an hourglass he and Ravyn used when they played chess. “I came prepared.”
He hurried to the hearth, the castle’s chill settling over him like a varnish. He sat cross-legged in front of the fire, opposite Ione, and opened his arms, the hourglass rolling onto the floor.
Ione picked it up. “What’s this for?”
“Parameters.” He set the flagon of wine, then the cup, between them. “It’s dangerous to use a Chalice for too long. Even if you don’t lie.”
“You enjoyed my inquest so much you’d like a repeat?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “We’re looking for your Maiden, are we not? I thought we might go over Equinox night. Parse the memories you have of your Card. You were drunk, yes?”
Her voice was clipped. “Yes.”
“And so your memories may not hold true. I’m hoping the Chalice will stop you, if you venture into a memory that might be false. If it proves unsuccessful, there are other Cards in my father’s vault that may help us narrow our search.”
“If it’s my memories you want, why not use the bloody Nightmare Card my father gifted the King?”
Elm pulled the Chalice Card from his pocket. “This,” he said, waving it in her face, “was in the armory, left over from yesterday. The Nightmare Card is currently being used in Hauth’s chamber by the Physicians attempting to revive him. Would you like to go there and ask them for it?”
Her mouth drew into a fine line.
“Neither would I. And so, we begin with the damn Chalice.”
Ione ran a finger over the curved shape of the hourglass, tilting it so that a few grains spilled into the second half. “It feels rather unfair, seeing as I’ve already endured an inquest, to be the only one put under the Chalice.”
“You won’t be. I’ll be joining you.” When the corners of Ione’s mouth twitched, a smile slid over Elm’s mouth. “How else am I to prove I remember you and win our little wager?”
“Then let us be equal. For every question I answer about Equinox, you must answer one of your own.”
Elm was aware, somewhere in the back of his head, that this was a terrible idea. He had far too many secrets, and none of them pleasant. But the cellar was warm, and the wine he’d consumed in the yard had settled into him. He didn’t want to break anything anymore. This terrible idea felt unreasonably good.
“All right.”
“Any topics you wish me to avoid, Prince?”
Ravyn. Emory. The Shepherd King. His childhood. His brother. His father. The impending doom of his life, should he be forced to marry a stranger, forced to become King—
Elm swallowed. “Nothing is off-limits.”
Ione tapped her fingers on the stone floor. “And our wager? When do I get my minute with your Scythe?”
“That,” Elm said, a low laugh humming in his throat, “we can save for last.” He dipped the flagon, filling the cup with wine. “Think of it as a reward.”
That seemed to please her—not that her face showed it. But she lifted her chin and stretched her arms over her head, loosening herself. Then she turned the hourglass over and placed it on the stone floor between them.
The sand began to fall. Elm took the turquoise Card into his palm and kept his eyes on Ione. “Ready?”
She nodded. He tapped the Chalice, watching Ione’s throat as she tipped her head back and drank from the cup. When she winced down the wine, she passed it to him.
Elm hesitated only a moment, partially because the Chalice always turned the wine sour, partially because of the low, hot twinge in his gut that told him, after this, there was no going back. Once laid bare to Ione Hawthorn, he would forever be laid bare, just as Ravyn had laid himself bare to Elspeth.
And look where that had gotten him.
Elm winced at the thought. Then, before Ione could note his hesitation, he threw his head back and drained the cup. The wine coated his tongue, so bitter he coughed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I hate that part.”
“Under a Chalice often, Prince?”
“Mercifully, no. And that,” he said, pointing a finger in her face, “was your first question. Now it’s my turn.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Where’s your Maiden Card?”
Her sigh came out a low, irritated hiss. “You’ll have to do better than that, Prince. I simply don’t know.”
Elm crossed his arms, feeling like a sullen boy under her withering stare. “How is that possible?”
“It’s my turn.” Eyes never leaving his, Ione pressed a finger into her bottom lip. Weighing. Measuring. “Why didn’t you go with your cousin Ravyn and the others this morning?”
“Straight for the throat, then.” Elm ran a hand over his face. “I wasn’t invited to join them. Forbade, actually.”