They left the circle of women, hands still entwined. When they reached the garden’s gilded doors, Elm said, rougher than he meant to, “You’re not a monster.”
“I’m not anything until I have my Maiden Card back.”
Night air touched Elm’s overwarm brow. “Speaking of that,” he said, looking out into the labyrinthine gardens. “What part of the garden were you trying to search before Linden stopped you?”
“The rose maze. There are statues there with old, cracked stone.”
They followed the path, past courtiers, playing games with White Eagle and Well and Chalice Cards. Past lovers, sneaking behind hedges and beneath trees. Past bramble into dark greenery, until it was just Elm, Ione, the garden, and the mist.
“Do you have your charm?” Ione asked.
Elm flicked his wrist, his horsehair bracelet rubbing against his skin. “You?”
She stretched fabric and pulled the horse tooth on a chain from beneath the neckline of her dress.
Elm pulled a torch from its stand and led them into a maze crafted of carefully pruned rosebushes that had all lost their blooms. They searched every statue—every crack in them.
Nothing.
Ione stayed silent, the only sound between them the distant echo of courtiers and the castle gong, ringing through the garden—nine tolls. For each statue that held no Maiden Card in its cracks, Elm lost a whit of forbearance. By the time the gong struck ten, he was buzzing with disquiet. “Are you angry with me?”
Ione’s gaze lifted slowly to his face. “No. Why would you think that?”
“We haven’t found your Card.”
“That’s not your fault. You didn’t hide it.”
“No, but…you just seem—” He swallowed. “I don’t do well with long silences. I tend to overthink.”
“Is it Stone that bothers you, Prince? Or me?”
“You don’t bother me, Hawthorn.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “At least not in the same way the castle does.”
It was difficult to look at her. Beneath the ache that existed between them was a thin, fragile thread. One Ione had slipped through the eye of a needle and plunged into Elm’s chest, past all his bricks and barbs, though she didn’t yet realize it. It was uncomfortable, pretending she was not sewn into him—that it had not become vital to him, helping her find her Maiden Card. That he was not in some kind of pain every moment he was with her. It was all so terribly, wonderfully uncomfortable.
So Elm did what he always did when he was uncomfortable. He dropped his hand into his pocket and retrieved his Scythe. “What did you want this for?” he said. “When we played our little game with the Chalice and you were delusional enough to think I wouldn’t remember you?”
Ione felt along the cracks of a nearby statue. “I wanted to see if I could compel myself to remember where I hid my Maiden.”
“I could try. I can’t guarantee it’ll work—”
“No. I don’t want anyone to use a Scythe on me. Not even you, Prince.”
It took Elm a moment. He winced. Fucking Hauth. He placed his Card into Ione’s hand. “You do it, then.”
She cocked her head to the side, fingers closing around the Scythe. “You had some choice words for me the last time I held this Card in my hand.”
Elm tugged a strand of her hair that had fallen from its knot. “That’s because, wicked one, you stole it out of my damn pocket.”
“So I did.” Ione turned the Scythe in her fingers. “It almost felt…good, making the highwaymen do what I wanted.”
“And the pain of using it too long? How was that?”
The Scythe stilled. “Terrible. I don’t know how you bear it.”
“I’m used to it.” Elm kicked a rock down the path. “I had an extensive education in pain.”
Ione took a step back. Narrowed her eyes over him. “You shouldn’t be so cavalier about what happened to you, Prince.”
“What would you have me do? Burn the castle down with everyone in it?”
“That would be a start.”
A laugh rose up Elm’s throat. “Trees, Hawthorn. What a Queen you’d make.”
He hadn’t meant to say it. And, graciously, Ione didn’t reply. Her gaze merely flared a moment, then returned to the Scythe in her hand. She sucked in a breath, tapped it three times, and closed her eyes.
Elm stood very still. When those hazel eyes opened again, they were unfeeling. “No,” she said, handing him back his Card. “I just remember the same thing. Cracked stone.”
They moved out of the rose maze to the rowan grove. The mist was everywhere, a salty bite across Elm’s senses. It hovered densely over a small pond at the cusp of the grove. In the center of the pond was a tiny island, and upon it a statue. The stone was old, cracked. But there was no mistaking the man carved into marble.
Brutus Rowan. The first Rowan King.
Elm had thrown rocks at the statue as a boy. He didn’t like Brutus’s face. It was handsome, a smile carved onto its lips. But beneath the smile, a cold menace lingered. Brutus’s chest was broad—puffed out in dominance. His brows were lowered, his vision fixed on something only he could see, a hunter watching its prey. It reminded Elm too much of his father—of Hauth.
He eyed the pond narrowly. “Do you remember swimming on Equinox?”
“No. But my dress was ruined enough that I might have.”
“If I wanted to put a Maiden Card out of reach,” Elm said, gesturing at the statue, “I might compel someone to take a little swim to hide it.”
Her brows perked. “There?”
Elm was already taking off his boots. “No stone left unturned, Hawthorn.” He shrugged out of his doublet and lifted his tunic over his head. When he caught Ione tracing the bare skin along his back, he smiled. “Sorry.” He nodded at his discarded clothes. “I should have asked if you wanted to help with that.”
He dove into the pond. The water was cold and slippery with algae. Elm kept his eyes shut and kicked, reaching the island in ten strokes.
There was no room to stand, the island hardly larger than the base of the statue. Elm braced himself on Brutus Rowan’s marble arm and hauled himself out of the water, mist lingering all around him.
“Well?” Ione called.
He searched the statue’s cracks. Some were fine, others jagged. The was a fissure in Brutus Rowan’s chest, deep and wide enough for Elm to slip a finger into. But there was nothing in the gap—just cold stone. Not a single hint of a Providence Card’s velvet edge. “Nothing.”
He pulled his finger out, closed his fist, and hit Brutus Rowan over his stupid marble chest.
The statue groaned. The fissure in Brutus’s chest widened, spreading down his legs until one large crack became hundreds.
“Shit.”
Brutus Rowan’s marble legs snapped at the ankles and the statue toppled into the pond, taking Elm with it. He hit the water, pushed under by the weight of the marble, held his breath, and swam. When his back collided with the grassy embankment, he flung himself upon it, hauled in a breath—
Mist rushed into him.
It tasted of brine and rot. It filled Elm’s lungs, his body, his mind. He went rigid on the ground, his eyes wide as he fumbled for his wrist, for the familiar feel of horsehair—