Was that what Emeline thought?
Is that why she ran?
He should let her think it. It was one more layer of protection between them.
But what was she doing in my yard?
It bothered him that she’d run off before he could find out.
At the very least, I should make sure she’s all right.
He got dressed and set out to find her.
It was a little past dawn when Hawthorne and Lament arrived at the Heartwood. The forest was still dark and the treesstood unnaturally still, as if listening to the same thing that drew Hawthorne to this place.
Her song.
A door lay up ahead, set into the trunk of a massive oak tree. It stood slightly ajar, and from deep below the earth the Song Mage’s honeyed voice flooded out.
The air shimmered with its magic.
Hawthorne dismounted from Lament and released the ember mare, who wandered off to graze. He approached the oak, leaned against the bark, and lowered himself down, waiting for Emeline to finish.
Listening to Emeline sing was like watching her walk into a room. It ensnared him like a spell. She made his heart race and his temperature rise … and he didn’t know why. He had no memory of her, only what she and others told him.
It was unsettling.
When her singing stopped, the trees seemed to sigh, then go back about their business, hushing and swaying. Hawthorne got to his feet, waiting for her to emerge. He was about to step out from the shadows of the massive oak and into her line of sight when the sound of not one but two voices stopped him.
“You do this every morning?” the first asked.
“Almost,” Emeline responded.
Hawthorne frowned. Someone was with her?
“Who’ll sing to the woods when you’re gone?”
Hawthorne quickly withdrew around the side of the oak, out of sight, as their footsteps thudded up the earthen steps beyond the door.
“No one,” said Emeline, opening the door and emerging into the still-dark woods with a lantern gripped in her hand.
A young man followed her out.
“That’s why the king can only spare me for a fortnight.”
A fortnight?
What was she talking about?
The light of Emeline’s lamp illuminated her companion: a handsome young man standing several inches taller than Emeline. His hair was so pale it looked white, and his eyes were blue as ice.
Hawthorne recognized him immediately: the visiting Frost King.
What’s he doing with Emeline?
“Perhaps there’s a way to sing to the wood while you’re in my court,” said the king. “After all, this forest touches both our homes.”
Emeline glanced up at him. Her black hair was braided back off her face. “You think that’s possible?”
