She’d endured a bartered marriage to Hauth, a brute, who’d gotten her drunk and used his Scythe on her—locked away her heart with three indifferent taps. He’d dragged her to the precipice of that window at Spindle House and pushed her to her death. She’d lay there in her own blood, staring up at the moon, thinking it would be the last time she’d see the night sky.
It tore at Elm, thinking she’d endured it all alone. That his stalwart opponent, the Maiden Card, had healed her so well she’d been spared feeling a single part of what had happened to her.
Until now.
Elm pressed his face into her shoulder, whispering the only consolation he could think to offer. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Her fingers dug into his tunic. Then she was pushing—forcing him away from her. When Ione looked up into his face, there was so much hurt in those hazel eyes Elm thought he might die.
She pulled farther back. “Give me a moment.”
“Ione.”
She folded over herself—hugged her arms over her chest. “Go, Prince.”
Prince. Like his brother. Elm scraped a hand over his eyes, said, “I’m sorry, Ione,” and left.
He trailed his thumb over the Nightmare Card. When he got to Hauth’s room, he didn’t bother knocking.
It was late. There was only one Physician on duty, standing near the corner of the room, sorting tinctures and vials. He jumped when Elm entered. But the other figure—seated at Hauth’s bedside, did not startle so easily.
Linden watched Elm enter, his brow knit by a deep grimace. “What the hell do you want?”
Elm didn’t look at Hauth. There was no use breaking things that were already broken. But an old, familiar rage had crawled up his throat for every second he’d lived in Ione’s memories. He didn’t merely want to break things.
He wanted what the Shepherd King had gotten. The privilege of holding Hauth Rowan’s life in his hands and finding it forfeit.
Elm wrenched open the chest at the end of the bed—threw the Nightmare Card back into it. “He’s not worth it,” he said—to Linden, to himself, he didn’t know. “He’s not worth another moment of your time.”
He returned to Ione’s door—slid down the face of it and sat in a heap, listening to the sound of her cries through the wood. He made himself listen. Made himself feel it.
His hand slipped into his tunic pocket, searching for comfort along velvet trim. Elm pulled the Scythe out and examined it, flipping it through his fingers. Red—the Rowan Card. His savior. His crutch. Did he even know who he was without it? Did his father? Had Hauth?
Ione’s sobs carried through the door. Elm closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wood, his shoulders shaking as tears fell down his face.
The door opened and Elm fell backward, hitting his head on the floor.
Ione looked down at him. With surprising strength she pulled him to his feet, closed the door behind them, and brought him to the bed.
Elm lay on his side and faced the wall, hollowed out. The mattress shifted and two hands wrapped around him. Ione pressed her body against his back, melding around him. Elm closed his eyes, tears he thought had all been spent stinging him once more. “Do you hate me, Hawthorn?”
Her arms tightened around him. “No, Elm. I don’t hate you at all.”
They slept. When Elm woke hours later, pale daylight shining in the window, Ione was still holding him. He memorized the map of her arms over his chest, perfect lines, she the stylus and he the paper.
Her voice fluttered past his ear. “Are you awake?’
He turned. Morning light kissed her hair, her ear, the high points of her face. Her eyes were swollen from crying.
Elm ran his hand across her cheek. “Ione.”
She pulled him until they were pressed together, her mouth tucked against the hollow of his throat. For a long while they did nothing but breathe, so close to one another their inhales and exhales matched, a slow, steady rhythm. “When did you see me riding?” she said, her voice a gentle hum against his skin. “With mud on my ankles?”
Elm ran his fingers through her hair in long, tender strokes. “I was sixteen, maybe seventeen, patrolling the forest road with Jespyr. We were supposed to be watching for highwaymen, but we were playing cards. A horse went by. Faster than most riders go. You didn’t see us. You were laughing, a sort of whistling cackle.” He rubbed the nape of her neck. “I liked your laugh. Your hair.”
Ione was quiet a long time. Elm thought maybe she’d fallen asleep again. Then, “I thought you were beautiful. A beautiful, terrible prick.”
A laugh rumbled in his chest.
“When I was a girl, I imagined you belonged in a storybook—no Prince had any right being so handsome unless he lived on a page. But you weren’t charming like a Prince in a story. And you made it abundantly clear there was no one besides the Yews worthy of your time.” She tugged at his sleeve. “The black clothes didn’t exactly make you seem approachable. I didn’t know then that Hauth was…hurting you.”
Elm swallowed. “Was I rude to you?”
“That would have required you to speak to me.”
“I didn’t speak much. But I saw you—liked you.” He spoke into her skin. “You seemed without burden. So happy and free you were exquisite. I envied you.”
“You liked me…out of envy?”
His arm tightened around her. “I’m a rotten thing, Ione. I’m learning as I go.”
Another pause. “On Market Day, when Hauth sent those poor people into the mist, you stood up to him. Challenged him, in front of everyone. And I saw the same rage and spite for him that I was beginning to understand.” Her voice quieted, her tone confessional. “I envied you.”
She swallowed. “There’s so much of myself I haven’t shared with you yet. What Hauth did—all the feelings he stole from me. I’m bitterly angry.”
“Then be angry, Ione.” Elm pressed his mouth to her forehead. “It looks well on you.”
She made a small noise of approval, her words to him mirrored back at her. “I say spiteful things when my feelings are hurt. Hold grudges. And the highwaymen—I’m not sorry for what I did to them. Not even a little. It was frightening and awful, and I’d do it again without thinking to keep you from getting hurt.” She took a rattling breath. “I think about how easy it would be to do horrible things if I felt I had a good reason.”
“So do I.”
“I liked that I might be Queen one day. I liked how the Maiden tempered things, how I stopped feeling regret and worry and fear. It felt a lot like power.” She tilted her chin up until their lips were almost pressed together. “Maybe you liked me that way, too.”
“I like that I can finally read your face, and that you’ve chosen to show it to me. You can tell me your terrible truths, Ione. I’m not going anywhere.”
Elm sat up, awake, hungry. And, for the first time in memory, happy the day was only beginning. “Do you still like to ride?”
They dressed quickly. This time, Elm made sure Ione had shoes and a damn cloak.
Fortified against the mist with their charms, they found Elm’s horse in the stable, then a chestnut-brown palfrey for Ione. When Elm handed her into the saddle, he caught himself wondering once more if the Spirit of the Wood did indeed dabble in the lives of men. If she’d pitied him that day he rode with Destriers to Hawthorn House. If she’d sensed all the rot inside him and gifted him, the ruined Prince, this moment with Ione to tide over his darkness.