Ravyn’s nose hurt a speck less. He kept it elevated, his eyes cast up the long trunks of the aspen trees, all of them reaching toward the sky like swaying arms, grasping at the moon.
Jespyr had the Nightmare Card. She was speaking to Elspeth—her face more relaxed than Ravyn had seen it in days. When she was done, she ran a listless finger over the Card’s edge. Handed it back to Ravyn.
He tapped it.
You’re tired, Elspeth whispered, her voice covering his mind like a blanket. I’ll be here when you wake up. Rest now.
I don’t want rest, Elspeth. His eyelids drooped. I just want you.
I know. She paused. It’s still very striking, your nose. Undoubtably your best feature.
Muscles feathered in the corners of Ravyn’s mouth. You think so?
Goodnight, Ravyn.
Goodnight, Miss Spindle.
He tapped the Nightmare Card and put it in his pocket.
“There it is,” Jespyr said through a yawn. “A hint of that elusive grin.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She poked his shoulder. “Stubborn till the end.”
“Someone has to defuse your optimism.”
“That’s what Elm’s for. But you—you’re not a pessimist at all, brother.” She smiled. “And it kills you.”
The Nightmare’s gaze shifted between them. Silken and slow, he said, “I had a sister as well, not two years younger than me. My father used to say we were as branches of our namesake tree. Twisted, and intrepid, Ayris and I.”
He pulled away before Ravyn could ask more, retreating to the far side of the aspen circle.
“He frightens me,” Jespyr said, settling close. “I spend most of the time hoping he doesn’t look at me with those yellow eyes. He seems so sinister, so inhuman, but then—”
“He reminds us who he was,” Ravyn murmured. “Before he became the monster.”
They pressed their backs together, their gazes lifting to the sky. They’d sat like that as children—as Destriers on patrol—as highwaymen in the wood.
“I can’t see any stars,” Jespyr said.
“Too much mist.” Ravyn’s eyelids fell. “I don’t know what’s on the other side of those alder trees, Jes. When we find a way in, stay close.”
When he drifted off to sleep, his sister’s voice was in his ear. “I always do.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Elm
It was only the third feast, and Elm’s courtly charm was wearing thin. But his father was on the dais, drowning himself in sullenness and wine, and Elm would rather dance until his feet bled than sit in Hauth’s chair another moment.
The theme of the night was Providence Cards. Rather uninspired of Baldwyn, Elm thought, to make a theme out of something that already constituted so much of the idle chatter at court.
The costumes were…predictable. Gauche.
Most of the women wore pink gowns and roses in their hair—evoking the Maiden. Others were clad in violet for the Mirror Card, small silver looking glasses in their hands. Men wore turquoise for the Chalice—handy, for they all were drinking heavily from their cups.
There were a few white tunics adorned with feathered collars for the White Eagle, the Card of courage. One brave soul had fastened wires to the back of his doublet and strewn ivy around them to represent the Iron Gate. Another had stuffed his gold tunic with excess fabric, giving his midsection a rotund, oval shape. The Golden Egg.
Only the King wore red for the Scythe, and no one was festooned in black for the Black Horse. That right was reserved for the Destriers.
Elm wore it anyway.
The orchestra was larger by three violins, and played louder now that the dinner hour had ended and dancing begun. Wine flowed until it wore itself on everyone’s face, staining cheeks and lips and teeth.
It paid to be tall, and despite the swell of the crowd, Elm could easily eye every corner of the hall, searching for that telltale yellow hair. Ione was not partnered with any of the dancers, nor was she seated at any of the tables. Elm was about to drop his dance partner’s hands and go search the garden when he spotted a circle of women, standing along the farthest wall.
They were playing some sort of game with a Well Card. Of the six of them, four wore pink Maiden Card costumes, one violet for the Mirror. The final woman, yellow hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck, had her back to Elm. She was clad in a deep burgundy gown, the color of wine. Her fingers were painted black to the knuckle, meant to convey claws.
The only Nightmare Card costume in the room.
The dance ended, and Elm realized he hadn’t heard a word his partner had said. He gave her a swift bow and moved on quick step through the crowd. When the circle of women saw him coming, their Well Card was forgotten, their gazes honed entirely on him—save Ione’s. She took her time turning around. When she finally deigned to, Elm saw that her lids were painted yellow—the same color as the eyes of the monster upon the Nightmare Card.
“Prince.” Her gaze, her face, mouth—all of them were unreadable. “I’m surprised you’re not wearing Scythe red.”
“As am I to find you in something other than pretty, pretty pink.”
“There is nothing wrong with pink.” She dragged her painted eyes over Elm’s black tunic and silk doublet. “You, terrible snob, look like a rich highwayman.”
“I believe he’s wearing black for the Black Horse, Ione,” one of the women whispered behind her.
Elm and Ione replied at the same time. “He’s not—”
“—I’m not.”
The corners of Ione’s lips twitched. Elm rubbed the back of his neck—grinned. “What about you?” He waved a hand at her costume. “That’s quite the monstrous getup.”
Ione’s eyes dropped to her burgundy dress. “Your father gave it to me. He ordered my hands and face painted, too.”
Elm’s smile faltered. Like the others she’d been given since arriving at Stone, the gown fit Ione poorly, her body lost to excess fabric. The only part that fit her tightly were the frills beneath her jaw. He was starting to think it wasn’t an accident, that all of her necklines resembled a collar.
It was one thing if Ione had chosen the costume herself. Knowing his father had orchestrated it to punish her—
Heat torched his throat.
“I imagine the King wanted to remind me that the only reason I’m here is because of the Nightmare Card my father paid him.” Ione held up her hand, curling her painted fingers as if they were indeed claws. “Or perhaps he merely wished to call me a monster.”
The women behind Ione leaned forward. “Not at all, Ione. King Rowan paid you special care, seeing to your costume.”
“Truly,” said another. “The Rowans have been most attentive.”
“How difficult it must be, Ione,” a third chimed, “for you to see things in a gentle light, what with Prince Hauth abed with illness.”
Ione didn’t even blink. “Difficult indeed.” She turned to Elm. “I believe games have begun in the garden, Prince. Would you care to escort me there?”
Their eyes met. “Of course.” Never dropping her gaze, Elm brought Ione’s hand to his chest—pressed it into the soft fabric of his doublet. Adding the slightest pressure, he ran her fingers down his abdomen, wiping the black paint off her skin. He did the same with her other hand, his clothes absorbing her stain. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go, Miss Hawthorn.”