It was one of the only good things about him.
Well, not quite theonlygood thing, she thought as she turned on the taps full-blast and added a generous helping of apple-spice soap to the foaming waters. Aside from his moments of generosity and no-nonsense behaviour, he could be kind when he wanted to be. Why, just the other day, when they were sent up a tray of over-cooked meat, he’d not complained—instead asking after Iona. When he heard she was unwell and that one of the lesser-experienced cooks was substituting for her, he’d had flowers sent to her room.
“I hear it is a mortal tradition,” he told her, “I rather like it. Feel free to send me flowers should I ever be bedridden again, sweet Juliana. Flowers, confectionaries, notes of your undying affection—“
It was at that point she threatened to send him a series of threats on fancy paper instead, and he quickly shut up.
It was one moment,she reminded herself, seeping into the waters and scrubbing at her skin.One moment doesn’t erase a lifetime of cruelties and poor, poor choices.
Although it had been a very long time since he’d done anything cruel to anyone.
His poor choices, however, remained.
The bathing-room door clicked open. “Juliana—don’t scream, it’s only me—have you seen my finest silk shirt?”
“I’m not screaming!” said Juliana, sinking further beneath the bubbles. She hoped their presence didn’t alleviate the impact of her scowl. “I never scream!”
Hawthorn’s eyes brightened, flame-blue. “I could make you scream.”
“Doubt it,” she hissed. “And your shirt is on top of the chandelier. One of your ‘guests’ must have thrown it up there last night.”
Hawthorn stepped out of the room again. “Ah! So it is. My thanks, cruel mistress.Also, it’s nice you knew which one was my finest silk shirt. Really. I’m touched.”
“You’ll be dead in a minute, if you don’t leave me to my bath!”
“Hmm. Not your finest insult, I have to admit. You need to try harder.”
Juliana picked up a brush from the side of the bath and hurled it at the still-open door. There came athunkas it collided with the floor.
“Missed!” said Hawthorn, and then poked his head around the door frame again, brush in hand. “Do you need this?”
“Out!”
Hawthorn dropped the brush, held up his hands, and retreated behind the closed door. She sighed, wishing they could install a lock. Unfortunately, Maytree had had it removed some year ago after Hawthorn had climbed into the bathtub drunk and almost drowned. “People are trying tokill you!“ she’d raged. “Why do you insist on giving them a helping hand?”
Juliana had since realised that Hawthorn rather suspected someonewasgoing to kill him at some point, and rather preferred death at his own, decidedly drunk hands.
She tried not to think too much about that.
Finally clean, she dressed and marched back into Hawthorn’s room. He sat beside the window, writing in a notebook he’d had for years. He folded it away the minute she emerged. “You look vexed.”
“This is my natural expression.”
“Regrettable. Anything I can do to turn that frown upside down?”
“Accompany me on my errands this morning.”
Hawthorn shrugged, rising to his feet in a languid, elegant fashion. He moved like a cat and she hated it. “As you wish.”
She buckled on her sword, grabbed her basket, and headed for the door, Hawthorn keeping close beside her. He nodded to the guards as they passed, exchanging pleasantries with the servants and occasionally flirting with them. He stopped as soon as they were outside the palace grounds. He was always a little more wary with the locals, although she supposed he had reason to be—he could never be sure who was wishing him dead.
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” she’d told him once, half-jokingly.
“Ah, but can you protect me from their barbs, their stares, their dark thoughts?” he’d responded.
“Come again?”
“Do not think on it,” he’d said, avoiding her gaze.
