The cup clattered against stone. Elm reared forward, sweeping Ione onto the floor, her hair soaking up spilled wine. His mouth found her jaw. He dragged kisses across it, then down the column of her neck, breathing her in with unsteady gasps.
A hungry flutter of noise scraped up Ione’s throat, her hands frenzied. They grabbed at Elm’s face, his hair, the muscles along his arms. She caught his wrist on an inhale, paused a beat, then shoved his hand against her breast.
Elm moaned, his palm filled with her. He kneaded with unrestrained fingers, spurred by the quickening breaths that bloomed from Ione’s parted lips. She clearly wanted him to be rough with her. And he could. It was what he was most familiar with.
But if he was rough, it wouldn’t last. And for a reason he had no time to work out, Elm wanted it to last with Ione Hawthorn. He softened his grip and slowed his hands, trailing them down to the undersides of her breasts, feeling the weight of them.
Then, so quick all Ione could do was gasp, he pushed them upward, meeting the pearl-soft skin with a kiss.
Her nails scraped through his hair and she arched her back, impatient. Her scent filled Elm’s nose, sharpest in the line between her breasts. He ran his mouth slowly over them, between them. She smelled of magnolia trees and fields during the first summer rain. Heady, sweet, wistful.
It undid him. For a moment, he lost focus, every thought bowing to Ione and her smell and her thrumming ache which, sometime between collecting her at Hawthorn House and there, on the floor of the cellar, had become Elm’s ache as well.
He tried to kiss more of her, but her dress—that stupid fucking dress—was in the way. He reached for her torn collar, gripping the fabric with both hands.
Their eyes met, bleary and wild.
Ione seemed to understand. “Tear it off,” she said. “Now.”
Elm brought her bottom lip into his mouth. Pressed it with the tips of his teeth. “Beg me to.”
She inhaled, to kiss or curse him—
A noise in the room pulled Ione’s focus, her eyes darting to the cellar door. Which was now open.
Filick Willow, with his hounds and books, stood, wide-eyed, arrested at the threshold.
Elm dragged his hands off Ione and shot the Physician a murderous glare. “Are we no longer knocking, Filick?”
“I—I did knock.” Filick’s gaze flew to Ione. “Apologies, Miss Hawthorn, I’ll just—” He hurried out of the room, leaving his dogs behind. One of them settled into his bed of hay in the corner. The other came over, tail wagging, and licked Elm across the face.
He reached for Ione, but she was already off the floor and on her feet, wine in her hair. “He’s not going to say anything,” Elm said, adjusting himself in his pants.
She hurried toward the door. “Wait, Hawthorn,” Elm called after her. “Ione. Wait.”
She didn’t.
Chapter Twenty-One
Elspeth
The past sank into me in that dark, bottomless water until I was a part of it.
I stood in a castle, opposite a young woman. She was shorter than me, with dark hair, copper skin, and piercing yellow eyes. She was the sun—I felt her warmth even in the cold corridor as we walked together.
Ayris. My younger sister.
Light came through arched windows, catching dust particles that fell onto green woolen carpets. “Oh no,” Ayris said, looking up at me. “There’s a bruise under your eye.”
I shrugged. “Training.”
“With Brutus, no doubt. Only a fool would mark up your face before coronation.” Her eyes rose to my head. “How does it feel—wearing the crown?”
I reached into my hair and touched something cool, its weight firm. “Like providence.”
When we got to the gilded door at the end of the corridor, the guards opened it. One of them was young, a boy my own age of seventeen. He had green eyes—and not one, but two bruises upon his face. He winked at Ayris, then me. “Good luck, Taxus.”
“Nitwit,” my sister muttered beneath her breath.
The doors opened to a cathedral. Stained glass caught the light, turning gray stones a brilliant spectrum of color. Violet, green, pink, red, burgundy, blue. The colors danced before my eyes, so bright and beautiful I wanted to catch them—put them in my pocket.
Lords and ladies stood around me as I took my seat in my late father’s chair. The one forged of old, bent trees. “Long live Taxus,” came my court’s jubilant call. “Long live the Shepherd King.”
Elspeth.
Elspeth.
Elspeth!
I opened my eyes to darkness. Someone called to me, an oily voice. The longer he called, the more desperate his tone became.
I tried to swim toward the sound of his voice, but the water—the net of memories—held me fast. I could not move, could not speak.
Could not get out.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ravyn
The quest to reclaim the final Providence Card was afforded no clamorous send-off. There was no applause, no music—no roses petals or handkerchiefs thrown when Ravyn quit Castle Yew.
The morning was eerily quiet. A cold snap had passed over Blunder, leaving frost in its wake. No one was there to bid him goodbye at dawn, save his parents—who watched him now from Emory’s window.
They’d hugged him, graciously accepting his loss for words like they always did. He’d managed the same meager farewell he’d tended Elm.
“I’ll see you soon.”
When he entered the meadow, the others were already waiting by the chamber.
Jespyr and Gorse appeared to have claimed as little sleep as Ravyn. The Ivy brothers, too. They were all bleary eyed in the dim morning light, bent under their travel satchels. Jespyr slung a bow and a quiver full of goose-fletched arrows over her shoulder and fought back a yawn.
Petyr tossed a copper coin between his hands. He elbowed Jespyr in the ribs. “Rise and shine, princess.”
“I see the lucky coin’s along for the trip.” She poked a finger into Petyr’s dark, curly hair. “You know luck is all in your head, don’t you?”
“There’s nothing in his head,” Wik said, biting into a piece of dried venison.
Gorse’s gaze shifted over the Ivy brothers. “Who the hell are you two?”
“Courtesans, here to make your journey a little sweeter,” Petyr said, puckering his lips. “How about a morning kiss, Destrier?”
Ravyn rubbed his eyes. “I asked them to join. Best practice is to ignore them.” His eyes traced the meadow. “Anyone seen our friend?”
“You mean Spindle?” Gorse jerked his head west. “She was in the armory.”
Ravyn kept his face guarded behind a crumbling facade of indifference. “That’s not Elspeth.”
On silent step, the Nightmare emerged out of the mist. Eyes wide with intent, he was the only member of their party who seemed fully awake. Only, instead of its usual malicious grin, his mouth wore a grimace.
“Why the sour face?” Jespyr called.
The Nightmare said nothing. His sword was noticeably sharper and had been meticulously cleaned—and so had his crown. It shone, a vibrant gold against the gray morning light. Ravyn traced its design, noting that the crown was carved to depict twisting branches.
It was not so different from his uncle’s crown. Only the branches hewn of gold were not rowan, but another. More gnarled—more bent and awry.