It was another sliver of memory.
We hurt each other. We fight, and we fail, and we fall short of the standards we set. We’re a little bit broken—every one of us. If you can’t handle that, then maybe you don’t deserve to be human.
Hawthorne frowned, trying to recall who’d spoken the words, but the memory was gone as quickly as it came. Disappearing back into the fog of forgetting.
Emeline, who’d been watching him closely, must have seen something on his face that dissolved her suspicion. Because she lowered her knife and stepped back.
“I’ll finish searching the house if you check outside. We can meet downstairs when we’re done.”
Hawthorne nodded. “Call me if you need me.”
Emeline said nothing.
He went outside to look around. But all he found were a few signs of wildlife—a family of deer, a young fox, several sparrows. Nothing malicious.
When he returned to the house, he found Emeline standing in the main parlor, staring at the fireplace. She clutched her arms, hugging herself.
“Everything all right?”
She jumped at the sound of Hawthorne’s voice, then spun to face him.
Which was when he realized it wasn’t the fireplace she was staring at. It was the trapdoor in the floor in front of the fireplace, which was propped open.
“I checked the entire house and found nothing. The only place I haven’t looked …” Her gaze wandered back to the trapdoor.
“I’ll go down,” he said, sensing she had no desire to.
She shook her head. “We can both go.”
Lighting a lamp, Hawthorne went first, leading them down into what appeared to be a cellar. It smelled like damp earth and old wine, and the farther they went, the colder it got. But it wasn’t a regular chill. This was something else.
As his feet hit the floor, he shivered.
The light of his lantern swung over the cellar. Wine racks lined the walls, and across the room …
Hawthorne squinted, trying to make it out.
Were thoseshacklesin the wall?
He turned to Emeline, intending to ask her, and found her staring in the same direction. Her face was several degrees whiter than it had been a minute ago.
He thought of the stories Rooke told him. Of the crimes the Song Mage committed against Emeline’s mother, Rose Lark.
This was where he imprisoned her, he realized.And Emeline knows it.
Before he could stop himself, Hawthorne reached for her, pulling her against him. When she didn’t resist, when her arms came around him, holding on tight, Hawthorne cupped the back of her head with his hand, turning her away from the sight across the cellar.
“She’s safe now,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “He can’t hurt her anymore.”
With her face buried in his shirt, Emeline nodded. Holding on to him.
She was soft and warm and fit exactly right in his arms. It was therightnessthat struck him. As if she belonged there.
Hawthorne hummed a gentle tune, trying to soothe her.
“How do you know that song?” she whispered, glancing up at him.
Hawthorne’s arms tightened. “I’m … not sure. It was just there in my head.”
