Hawthorne halted in the doorframe, his body going rigid with doubt. When Emeline looked back, she saw the confusion in him.
He didn’t know this place. He didn’t want to come inside.
“It’s all right,” she said softly, moving towards the heat of the fire, trying to coax him to follow. If he did have hypothermia, she needed to get him warm.
He stepped back suddenly, out into the cold, wet night. “Are you sure this is my home?”
Seeing his fear, she returned to him. They stood face-to-face on the threshold, drenched and muddy. Hesitantly, she reachedfor him, and when he didn’t flinch away, she brushed the wet hair out of his eyes.
“Everything is going to be all right,” she promised.
His uncertain gaze held hers. “How can you know that?”
For a moment, the rain and the woods and the house ceased to exist. It was only Emeline and Hawthorne, standing in the doorway.
“Because,” she said softly. “I remember everything.”
EPILOGUE
THREE MONTHS LATER
HER VOICE. THAT WASthe first thing. He remembered the sound of it shimmering in the air as she sang an old song,from a time long before.
The feel of her palm. That was the second thing. When she stopped to catch her breath, her hand—so soft and so warm—pressed the steady beat of her heart inside him. Like a knock at the door.
And the last thing? The absence of her. The space rushing in when she pushed away, leaving him behind. Even in her absence, though, the warmth of her flesh never left him. Instead, it lingered, radiating out through his limbs.
And the song she sang, the sound of her voice …
Like the first bit of sunlight in the morning, it woke him up.
The fire crackled in the hearth as Hawthorne refilled Aspen’s cup. She was telling him about the visiting king from the Winter Court, who’d arrived over a week ago.
“Do you really think his mother died of natural causes?”
They sat across the table from each other inside his house.His house. It was a fact he was still getting used to, if he werebeing honest. As Aspen spoke, a breeze blew in through the open windows.
Hawthorne glanced outside.
It was nearly sunset. The sky brooded and the air blowing in felt heavy and moist, warning of rain. Lament loved storms and would be itching for a ride. Perhaps after Aspen left—
“Hawthorne?”
“Hmm?”
“The Frost King.” She lowered her voice and leaned in, her white-blond hair brushing the table like a curtain. “Some people think he killed his mother to take her throne.”
“I’m not sure I have an opinion on the matter.”
Hawthorne knew little about the situation. What he did know, Rooke had explained: historically, the Frost Queen’s court and the Wood King’s court were enemies. Then, a few weeks ago, the queen passed away under somewhat mysterious circumstances. Now her son was here, trying to forge a more amicable relationship between the two courts.
Or so he claimed.
“The king is throwing a ball in his honor tomorrow evening. Perhaps you can form an opinion then.”
Hawthorne glanced at the small white envelope on the window ledge. The invitation had arrived three days ago, and he still hadn’t RSVP’d. Mainly becauseshewould be there.
The girl who walked his dreams at night.
