“Emeline.”
“They’ d hire you in a heartbeat. Or you could—”
“Emeline. Stop.”
His weary tone made her fall silent. The darkness was too dark, suddenly.
“I would follow you to the ends of the earth if I could.” His voice broke on the words. “But I can’t. We’ve been through this a hundred times.”
Because Hawthorne had made a deal with the Wood King—onethat tied him to his king and his court. Whatever Hawthorne was getting out of this deal he never bothered to say.
Balling her hands into fists, she said, “So that’s it?”
His silence was stony, stretching on and on. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to answer her question.
“I’m bound to the woods.” His voice was thin and small. It scared her a little. “But you’re not. You need to go live your life. This is your dream and I want you to chase it, even if I can’t be by your side when you do.”
Her heart sank.
“Is this …” Emeline’s chin trembled as hot tears welled in her eyes. “Are you breaking up with me?”
He pulled her to him. Cupping her neck, he nestled her cheek against his chest, resting his chin on the crown of her head. “I never want to be the thing that holds you back.”
That wasn’t an answer to her question.
Before she could say so, he whispered into her hair, “I’ ll be waiting right here. Always.”
“EMELINE?”A VOICE SHATTEREDthe memories, bringing her back to the present.
She was in the green room of the Nymph, with its flickering fluorescent lights and old-coffee smell. Joel stood over her, peeling her headphones away from her ears as The Perennials piled onto the couches behind him.
“You were supposed to be out onstage fifteen minutes ago.”
THIRTY-NINE
EMELINE WALKED ACROSS THEstage towards the microphone. Her body moved on instinct, her footsteps automatic. Like a confident, seasoned musician.
At least, that’s what she hoped she looked like.
On the inside, Emeline was a wreck. Her mind was a dizzying rush of memories, swelling like a storm.
Beneath the bright white of the lights, she blinked, trying to find her bearings. She reached for the mic, her hands shaking a little as she adjusted its height.
“Hello, bonsoir, Montréal!”
Her voice echoed through the speakers, the familiar amplification calming her enough to pull the strap of her Taylor over her head. A round of cheering rose up beyond the lights. She sensed more than saw the faces in the crowd. Heard the coughs and murmurs. Felt the sway of warm bodies.
But Emeline was only half there. Her other half was in the green room, knee-deep in memories she’d only just recovered.
Sensing the chaos swirling inside her, Emeline’s brain took over, putting her on autopilot. Telling her body what to do based on all the other gigs she’d ever played.
“Je m’appelle Emeline Lark,” she heard herself say. “It’s a pleasure to play for you tonight.”
If her voice quavered, no one noticed. The audience clapped and whooped out there in the dark. Somewhere in that crowd, Daybreak reps were watching.
Emeline fastened on a smile as her fingers quickly plucked strings and adjusted tuning pegs. Her set list lay at the base of the mic stand, in perfect view. The titles of the songs Chloe had written for her scrolled in bold black letters down the white.
But before she could even start playing, Hawthorne’s voice flooded her mind.
