Pain hit Elm’s temples. He felt something warm slide from his nostril.
Ione’s eyes tightened. She dragged her hand under his nose. When she pulled it back, there was blood.
Elm hadn’t remembered, the music loud in his ears, that he was still using his Scythe.
Ione reached into his pocket. When her finger grazed his Card, Elm’s connection shattered. The pain stopped.
“Sometimes,” she muttered, wiping his blood on her skirt, “I think things would be infinitely better if there were simply no Providence Cards at all.”
Elm gave a shaky exhale. “You’d make such a perfect Queen.”
She laughed at that. Not a real laugh, but a cold, unfeeling one. “Just not a perfect Rowan Queen.”
“What does that mean?”
“Elspeth,” she said plainly. “I could never wear the crown that would see Elspeth, or anyone infected, killed. Not even now, when I feel nothing. It’s why I wanted the be Queen in the first place. To have real power. To change things.” Again, that derisive laugh. “I was a fool.”
Elm blinked. And it became so painfully clear what he needed to do. He took Ione’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and led her down the hall, away from the music that drifted through the columns. For the first time since he’d stood on that drawbridge and watched Ravyn ride away, Elm felt light. Like someone had punched a hole in Stone’s ancient walls and let in the day.
When they got to the tall, fortified doors of the throne room, he nodded at the sentries.
The doors opened with an ominous rumble. Elm pulled Ione inside. “Don’t let anyone in,” he told the sentries.
The hearths were not lit. The room was dark. They were alone in that cold, heartless place. Alone, just she, him—
And the throne.
Ione’s voice drifted past Elm’s ears. “What are we doing here, Prince?”
He looked at the chair. That ancient monster, forged of rowan trees. “Elm,” he reminded her. “Call me Elm.”
“What are we doing here, Elm?”
Christening. Reclaiming. Fashioning a new King. Maybe a new Queen as well.
“Changing things.”
Ash. A wide, jagged crack in pale stone.
Elm and Ione stood on the east side of the throne room, staring into the open mouth of the unlit hearth. “Look inside,” Elm said, the shadow of terrible things hanging low. “There is a pale stone that lifts.”
Ione dropped to a crouch. When ash brushed between her fingers, she drew in a breath. The muscles between her shoulders bunched, and a scraping sound filled the throne room. She pulled the pale stone away, revealing a dark, carved-out hole. In it were two things: a cluster of weapons—a chain and whip and a short, blunt club—
And a Maiden Card.
Ione pushed the weapons aside. The iron links of the chain clanged, and Elm’s hands balled into fists. She took the Maiden Card and slid it into the bodice of her dress, then shoved the stone back.
When she turned, her expression revealed nothing—no joy that the thing she had so long sought was back in her possession. “What are the weapons for?”
“An education in pain.”
Her gaze shot to Elm’s face, then dropped to his hands, locked in fists. She caught one, brought it to her mouth—pressed her lips over it. “Thank you.”
His voice was rough. “Don’t thank me yet. There’s still one last thing for us to do here.”
Elm lead her to the throne. His fingers ghosted over the armrest. Slowly, he lowered himself down into the dark seat.
Ione watched him. “Preparing for the future?”
“More than you know.” He leaned forward—clasped his hands together. “I have a proposition for you, Miss Hawthorn. A final barter between us.”
“So formal.” She propped a shoulder against the throne. “What are we bartering, Elm?”
He liked hearing his name on her lips far too well. “This terrible chair. And you in it with me.”
Ione’s brows drew together, her gaze jumping between him and the throne.
“You can still be Queen of Blunder, Hawthorn. If you want to.”
Her voice was needle-sharp. “What are you talking about?”
“Marriage contracts,” Elm said, itching to touch her. “A Kingly duty my brutish father has never tended well. The last one he penned himself—poorly, might I add—was signed on Equinox. A Nightmare Card, for a marriage.”
“To Hauth. A contract that bound me to Hauth.”
Elm smiled. “To the heir.”
He’d known the moment he’d read it that his father had not taken pains to see the contract well worded. The King’s handwriting had been difficult to read. It was the first time Elm had thanked the Spirit his father was a drunk. He’d gotten the keys from Baldwyn and fetched the contract—read it three times over. Bound by this contract to wed the heir to the throne of Blunder, followed by Ione’s name and the King’s signature.
And there was nothing to erase it, now that it was hidden safely at Castle Yew. Which meant Ione Hawthorn, if she wished, could still be Queen—still marry a Rowan. Only now, it wasn’t the brutal Prince.
But the rotten one.
“Queen,” Elm said. “We’ll find your mother and brothers—release your uncle and father, if you wish it. You can be the ruler you were supposed to be. Wanted to be.”
Ione’s face was unreadable. “The King will never allow a wedding. My kin are traitors. Infected.”
“So are his,” Elm bit back. “My father has always kept the infection close, so long as it served him. Ravyn, Emory—his own nephews, infected.” Elm sucked his teeth. “There are many things the King does not want made public. Should he wish them to remain quiet, he will not challenge me on this.”
Ione rounded the throne. Elm parted his legs, and she stood between them. “And if I hadn’t saved your life?” she whispered, gazing down upon him. “Are you so honorable that you would marry me, a stranger who’s been nothing but cold to you, just because your father skipped a few words in a marriage contract?”
His eyes glided over her mouth. “Charitable of you to think me honorable.”
“You are.”
“And you’re hardly a stranger.”
“You don’t know the real me.”
Elm softened his voice. “I know there is a warmth in you not even the Maiden can confine. No one who feels nothing would work so tirelessly to get their feelings back. I also know you love Elspeth—and not despite her infection. You simply love her.” He ran his thumb over Ione’s bottom lip. “I think, behind the Maiden, you love a great many things, Ione Hawthorn. Even this wretched kingdom.”
When she let out a breath, Elm leaned forward, traced his nose over her jawline—whispered into her ear. “I’d like to know the real you. Whenever you’re ready.”
Ione went still and didn’t speak. The silence settled into Elm, shaking his resolve. “I’ll make no demands of you,” he managed. “When you release yourself from the Maiden and find you still do not care for me, we need never—”
“You think I don’t care for you?”