He stood at the bottom of a steep hill. One that dropped offsharply into the river below, the water rising towards him due to all the melt.
Lightning flickered above the woods, shining on his bare skin and dark hair. He was beautiful and naked and covered in mud. Surrounded by thorny brambles, he clung to a birch to keep from sliding farther.
At the top of the hill stood Lament, pawing the ground, whinnying anxiously as she stared down at her rider, unable to get to him.
When Emeline screamed his name above the rain, Hawthorne looked up. Their eyes met—those eyes she loved so much—and Emeline saw he was quaking with cold.
“Hold on …”
Grabbing one tree after another, she slowly made her way down the muddy hill. Halfway down, she slipped and fell, sliding the rest of the way on her bottom.
Planting her feet, Emeline rose unsteadily. Standing only a few paces away from him, she saw the scratches along his legs. Places where the thorns had cut deep and left blood smeared across his skin.
“Don’t move, okay?”
Hawthorne stood silent, watching her.
She stepped towards him, tamping down arching strands of thorns with her boots, moving those close to him away with her fingers. Her hands shook. Her whole body shook.
“How did you get yourself into this mess?” she murmured.
She wanted to throw her arms around him, but the thorns between them stopped her.
Except it wasn’t just the thorns.
There was something else.
Hawthorne was looking at her the way Pa sometimes did, when he was having trouble placing her. On his very bad days.
When she reached to touch him, he flinched away.
“Who are you?” he asked.
A chill sliced through Emeline at that question. Her fingers quickly retreated.
“You don’t remember,” she said, not believing it at first.
But the wary look on his face remained.
He didn’t know her.
Just get him out of the storm,she told herself, trying to ignore the panic lighting her up inside.
If he didn’t remember …
Thunder rumbled. Emeline raised her voice above it: “We need to get you somewhere warm!”
She had no idea how long he’d been out in the rain and the cold, had no idea if hypothermia would—or already had—set in.
She trembled and rushed, her hands shakily grabbing at thorns, avoiding those empty eyes. The thorns pricked her, one after another, until her hands were slippery with blood and rain. She tugged and yanked, pulling fiercely, trying to get him free.
“Stop.” His voice was rough and soft all at once. “You’re hurting yourself.”
“It’s fine.”
He reached for her chin with quivering, ice-cold fingers and raised her eyes to his, studying her as if she were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
“It doesn’t look fine to me,” he said, his forehead creasing.
