He thought of the owlish shiftling. The way she winked at him after watching him gulp down the whiskey. A whiskey she handed him.
He could still taste the strange spicy-sweet aftertaste.
Emeline looked crestfallen. “You’re enchanted, Hawthorne.”
He was about to deny it, but she cut him off.
“You don’t remember,” she explained. “But her spells make you do things you don’t want to do.”
Like kiss people you don’t want to kisswas the unspoken part.
Except he wanted to kiss her. He’d been dreaming about it for weeks now.
That was the problem.
“I …”
She was already breaking away from him. He reached for her and missed. She darted through the curtains.
“Emeline!”
She was gone. Hawthorne stepped back into the ballroom,searching for her. He saw Aspen dancing with Rooke. He saw the shiftling who’d given him the drink. She grinned, raising her glass to toast him.
Hawthorne looked past her, searching for the girl he’d lost.
There she was. Standing with Grace. Struggling to brush the tears from her eyes. Grace wore a soft pink gown and roses in her hair. She reached for Emeline’s shoulder, trying to comfort her.
Hawthorne headed across the floor towards them.
Someone else got there first. Someone dressed in the frost-blue colors of the Winter Court.
Hawthorne halted, watching Emeline look up at the king. The young man held out his hand to her, his brow furrowed in concern. When she took it, he led her into the dancing. His head bent as he murmured something to her, his hand resting gently on her hip.
As Hawthorne watched them, he couldn’t help but wonder:
What if this kingwasn’ta danger? What if he was simply smitten?
Worse: What if he was the man she deserved?
HAWTHORNE SPENT MOST OFthe following day chopping wood. He was trying to exhaust himself. Trying to drive the memory of last night—the taste of her lips, the feel of her hair—from his mind.
Suddenly, a raven swooped down, interrupting his work. It dropped a note onto his chopping block, then squawked at him from the branch of a nearby maple tree.
Recognizing the bird as one of Rooke’s compatriots, Hawthorne unfolded the paper to find a hastily scrawled message:
A shadow skin sighting at the old Song Mage’s estate. Need your help.
He frowned at the words. The Song Mage in question had been Emeline’s father, he knew. A terrible man. Rooke had told Hawthorne the worst of his crimes.
A shadow skin sighting?
Hawthorne sometimes dreamed of the monsters: creatures with no eyes and with razor-sharp teeth. Creatures that twisted your mind against itself.
But there hadn’t been a shadow skin sighting since Emeline broke the curse. Hawthorne grabbed the ax, then fetched Lament and rode for the old Song Mage’s estate.
IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON WHENhe arrived at the dilapidated manor. The rusted gate hung open, revealing overgrown gardens. The sun hung low, flickering through the trees.
It was unnervingly quiet.
