Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tell them. Tell them the truth. When your children ask, do not lie—do not hide the risk of magic. Children are strongest when their eyes are clear. Only then can they make their own choices. Only then are they truly free.
Tell them. Tell them the truth.
I stared at myself in the foggy looking glass, trying to recall my mother’s face. Her dress was long and richly made, deep crimson—like heart blood. Across its breast was embroidered a tangle of golden branches that wove together into a long, delicate spindle tree.
I’d inherited the dress, along with a few other trinkets, at her death. I’d brought it to Equinox but had left too early to wear it. The style was older, but I did not begrudge the gown its draping sleeves. They would help hide my bandaged, aching wrist.
When my maid reached for my wooden comb, I stopped her, pointing to the flower crown on my nightstand. “The rose will do,” I said, plaiting my hair into a long, plain braid and fastening the rose just above the nape of my neck.
Out of habit, I placed my charm in my skirt pocket. I smiled into the looking glass, searching for energy I did not feel.
The woman reflected in the glass matched my smile, her feline yellow eyes flashing.
Jespyr waited at the foot of the stairs, her injured foot stuffed into a thick black boot.
She wore her black Destrier tunic, her brow covered in an intricate felt mask of the same color—a Market Day tradition.
When she glanced my way, her brows rose above her mask.
“You look lovely,” she said, offering her arm.
“I’ve never seen you in your house color before. ”
As always, Jespyr’s smile was contagious. “I didn’t bring a mask,” I said. “I almost never go to Market Day.”
“Thistle will find you one,” she said, offering me her arm. “Shall we?”
We stepped through the ancient doorway into morning sunlight. My mask was a deep green but for the gold trim painted along the edges of the eyes. It tied in a silk ribbon behind my head, covering my face from my brow bone to just below the apples of my cheeks.
I saw Ione up ahead in a cream-colored mask, her gold dress hemmed in Hawthorn white.
Fenir and Morette Yew stood together in matching green, their yew trees embroidered ornately up the spine of their cloaks.
Hauth, who wore no mask—his Princely face on display—had abandoned his black Destrier’s cloak for a rich tunic, the gold branches of several prominent trees woven into a strange, complex pattern along his chest, shadowed by the Rowan insignia.
He stood with Ione near Elm and Ravyn, who, with matching masks, remained adorned in Destrier black.
They stopped speaking as Jespyr and I approached, their eyes turning to me.
Warmth moved across my chest, swimming up my neck into my cheeks. When no one spoke, Jespyr let out a snort. “Clearly they’ve never seen a woman before.”
I tried not to look at Ravyn, the memory of last night encasing me, the feel of his hand in my hair—his mouth on mine—still a shadow on my skin.
I felt his eyes tracing me. When I finally raised my gaze, I caught the tail of a smile roving across his mouth, his eyes lingering on the rose in my hair.
But before Ravyn could greet me, Hauth stepped in his way.
The High Prince’s voice was smooth—charming once more. “Miss Spindle,” he said, offering me his uninjured hand.
I took it hesitantly, bowing. “Your Highness.”
“You must forgive my brutish manners. Yesterday was a trying day.”
The High Prince did not let go of my hand, his gaze tight on my face. “You’re very striking, even under that mask,” he said. He pulled me closer. “I wonder,” he said, shooting Ravyn a pointed look over his shoulder, “what it is you see in my cousin.”
I could tell by the sly tones of Hauth’s voice that I held little interest for him—I was merely a toy to steal from his cousin.
Still, my gaze turned to the Captain of the Destriers.
I noted the shadow of the beard and the flex of muscle beneath it along Ravyn’s jaw.
The sharp contours along the ridge of his distinct nose.
The way his hair, neither long nor short, framed his stern brow.
His gray eyes—stark beneath his black mask—so sharp they cut at me.
It was all of those things—and none of them at once.
Something else drew me to the Captain of the Destriers.
Something I had, caught up in our game of pretend, overlooked.
Something ancient—born of salt. We were the same, he and I.
Gifted with ancient, terrible magic. Woven in secret, hidden in half-truths.
We were the darkness in Blunder, the reminder that magic—wild and unfettered—prevailed, no matter how desperately the Rowans tried to stamp it out. We were the thing to be feared.
We were the balance.
But I could not say that in front of Hauth Rowan. Instead, I offered Ravyn a rare, unconstrained smile. “He’s very… tall.”
Ravyn’s eyes flared. He caught my smile and matched it with his own, stepping forward. When he squared off with the High Prince, I noticed Hauth straighten, his spine rigid, chin held high.
But it was to no avail. Ravyn was taller than him.
And, given the condescending turn of his mouth, it wasn’t the only thing Ravyn felt superior to his cousin over.
He offered me his hand and I took it, grateful to be free of Hauth’s touch.
“If you’re done peacocking,” Ravyn said to his cousin, lacing his fingers in mine, “Market Day awaits. Best put a glove over that mangled hand before your subjects see it, Prince.”
Hauth’s nostrils flared. Not reticent to be outdone, he caught my other wrist—my injured wrist. “You’ll save me a turn on the square, won’t you, Miss Spindle?”
So acute I saw stars, pain shot through my wrist up into my arm. It took all my effort not to cry out in pain. And while my bandage was obscured by my sleeve, there was no hiding the strain on my face.
Hauth’s expression shifted from bravado to surprise, his green eyes wide, lowering to my sleeve. “Something wrong with your arm, Miss Spindle?”
Next to me, Ravyn froze. But before he could speak, someone shifted in my periphery, a flurry of gold, long yellow hair catching the light.
Ione.
“Careful, darling,” she said, stepping between me and Hauth, forcing him to drop my arm.
Her voice was pitched higher than normal—sickly sweet.
“Elspeth and I went riding yesterday morning. She fell off a horse, poor dear.” Her hazel eyes turned to me, narrow, keen—opposite of the sweetness in her voice. “Isn’t that right, Bess?”
For a moment I thought I caught a glimpse of the old Ione—the one who would block me from my stepmother’s frigid glares. Shield maiden, Ione Hawthorn, ever my protector. I nodded, my wrist still throbbing. “Indeed.”
Hauth’s gaze skipped from me to Ione. When it landed on his betrothed, something cold slid into his green eyes.
But I had no time to work out what it meant, or why Ione had lied to him for me.
Elm and Jespyr swooped upon us. Jespyr slid her arm into Ravyn’s, and Elm did the same to mine, pulling both of us away from Hauth and Ione.
“You know what they say,” Elm said. “Don’t mix horses and drink.
Now, if we’re done with pleasantries, let’s go.
It’s practically midday, and on the subject of drink, I’m behind on my daily quotient. ”
He pulled me through the statuary toward the gate. I felt Hauth and Ione watching me, but I did not turn. I couldn’t let them see all the fear welling in my eyes. Ravyn shot me a fleeting glance, but his sister kept him at a steady pace ahead of us, her head close to his in conversation.
“Do you think Hauth recognized my injury?” I whispered to Elm.
Elm ran a hand through his tangled hair, leading me out the gate onto the cobbled street. “My brother’s not half as clever as he thinks he is,” he said. “By the trees, Spindle, wipe all that apprehension off your face.”
But I wasn’t convinced. There was something about Hauth Rowan that deeply unnerved me. Just like in the wood, I could not shake the feeling he was hunting me. With every look—every touch—he was seeking me out for the kill.
The street sloped, busier the closer we got to the square on Market Street. We were close to Spindle House. I could see the red flag at the gate. A guard stood sentry, one I’d never met before.
I slowed my pace, an idea sharp in my mind. But when I tried to step beyond the crowd to the gate, Elm held me back.
“Keep walking,” he said.
“I was just going to—”
“I know what you were doing,” he snapped. “Now’s not the time.”
“Why not?” I demanded, pulling out of his grasp. “My father won’t be home. We can look for his Well Card.”
Elm glanced up the street, but Ravyn and Jespyr were too far ahead to call out to. He groaned, muttering under his breath. “Don’t leave me with this nitwit.”
I tugged his sleeve, forcing him to face me. “It’s a good idea,” I said.
He looked at me like I was a bug he’d like to squash. “And you think—what? That Erik’s left his Well Card out on the table for us to nab? It’s not the time,” he said again.
“You’re a Prince—you can do as you wish! You carry one of the strongest Cards in the Deck.” I crossed my hands over my chest. “Or are you too afraid to do anything without Ravyn there to help you?”
Elm’s eyes flared, his brow twisting in disdain, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. “No more than you, Spindle,” he said, his voice dangerously low.
“I’m trying to keep things moving and not waste time with pageantry.”
“It’s pageantry that keeps us looking like everyone else,” the Prince said, his hand tight on my arm as he led me away from my father’s house. “Let’s go.”