As the sky darkened, that muddy form rose up from the swamp, dripping as it sloshed towards her.
“I’ll give you half the blood I own if you let me pass right now.”
“Pity,” slurped Bog, pulling back its fens to reveal that mucky boardwalk. “Your passage has already been paid by Grace Thorne.”
Paid by Grace?Emeline didn’t have time to ask how or why, but a rush of gratitude swept through her. She raced down the boardwalk, ducking beneath hanging gray vines, until at last she pulled the final curtain aside and stepped into the city. The streets were growing dark, and lamps were being lit around her.
Emeline’s heart thundered.
She needed to save Hawthorne … if it wasn’t already too late.
She ran.
At the palace gate, the hedgemen led her inside. She didn’t wait for them to bring her before the throne; she knew the way. Her bloody heel throbbed as she ran. Through the windows, the sun slipped below the treetops.
The sky was pink as coral when the endless halls finally dissolved around her and the giant white birches of the grove emerged. Emeline advanced towards the king waiting atop his throne.
Am I too late?
Her breath scraped her lungs. Sweat dampened her skin.
“I found your missing pages,” she said, chest heaving as she thrust out the sheet music.
Those black eyes peered down at her, the moon-shaped pupils glowing bright white. He held out a gnarled hand that remindedEmeline of a tree branch in winter, stripped of its leaves. She came forward and set the rolled vellum in his palm.
The king unfurled the music, studying it.
Emeline looked around them, but the grove stood empty. No courtiers. No guards.
No Hawthorne.
Did I get here in time?
“Well done,” rasped his earthy voice. “I was certain you’d lied.”
Emeline opened her mouth to answer him, but promptly decided not to. What good would telling him the truth do?
For several breaths, she just stood there, bracing herself for the moment he decided to gleefully declare that she’d arrived too late and Hawthorne was dead. But the king only handed the music back to her.
She took it.
“You’ve proven your loyalty, Emeline Lark.” He reclined in his throne, studying her closely. “You’ll make a fine singer in my court.”
Emeline had no intention of being a permanent fixture in his court, but kept this to herself.
“And Hawthorne? Is he …?”
“Alive?” An unnerving smile slid across the king’s dry, cracked lips. “Go to his house and see for yourself.”
Fully dismissed, Emeline fled out of the grove, down candlelit halls, and through the palace gate. She half ran, half limped, down the path to Hawthorne’s house and only slowed when she came to the small bridge over the prattling creek. Two armed hedgemen were crossing the bridge, heading her way. As if their business with Hawthorne was finished.
Neither tried to stop her, so Emeline ran for the stone house. She didn’t bother to knock, bursting through the door.
“Hawthorne?”
No fire burned in the fireplace. A bowl of wild apples sat in the middle of the table. Next to it was a mug of half-drunk tea. Emeline touched the mug and found it cold.
“Hawthorne!”
