Epilogue: Part One
Briar Rose
briar rose sat in the window of the high white tower that had been his prison for a hundred years, his arms slung over his knees. Camellia’s roses still covered the sill beside him, and he was careful not to catch the sleeves of his newly tailored silver-and-blue coat on the tiny thorns. He didn’t remember what had happened to his old coat, but it was shredded—it barely qualified as a rag at this point. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. He’d had it mended with a smattering of darker blue patches and left it hanging in the closet of his old bedroom, right next to Sage’s, in the castle of Andar, now free from its curse.
Everything Camellia had promised him had come true. This tower was filled with memories of her. Briar closed his eyes, letting a thousand images of his sister wash over him. The smile on her face as she tickled him mercilessly. The shriek of her laughter as she and Briar were pelted with snow after he foolishly challenged the Snake Witch and the Dream Witch to a snowball fight. The warmth of her arms tight around him as she promised he would be saved from the Spindle Witch’s curse. Against all odds, Camellia had managed to keep that promise.
A light breeze ruffled Briar’s hair as he looked out over the castle grounds. On that first day, when all of Andar had woken from its hundred-year nightmare, it had been to a bleak view of raging winds and black wastelands. But in the weeks since, all of the dust had blown away, revealing new shoots of grass and green plants rising from the ashes. The impenetrable Forest of Thorns had crumbled to nothing.
Now this window looked out on a line of ancient willow trees sweeping over the river, their skeletal trunks slowly healing, their branches rippling with a cloud of soft white blossoms. Blue and purple bellflowers sprouted from the dark earth at their roots, and Briar could hear birds calling in the branches. It would be many years before Andar was restored completely, but everything was still there, sleeping just under the surface.
Laughing voices pulled his attention to the base of the tower. Briar leaned out. A group of people was moving through the castle gardens below. Some planted rose cuttings and sachets of seeds along the wall, while others ambled beside the riverbank, clearing away dead bracken and hanging the willow boughs with a thousand tiny bells—Aurora’s bells. A young Witch in the robes of the Order of the Rising Rain walked among them, twirling a stream of water in her hand like a sparkling ribbon.
Briar recognized the girl—he’d passed her sleeping form many times as he walked the castle in his dreams—but the others were strangers. He wondered if they were from Everlynd or if these were the new arrivals from hidden enclaves and villages to the north and south, where some of Andar’s people had escaped the curse. More were coming every day, some all the way from the neighboring kingdom of Darfell. As he stared out this bleak window for a hundred lonely years, Briar had never imagined that so much of Andar had survived.
The Witch girl slipped on a patch of mud, the thick stream of water gushing over one of the workers. She slapped her hands over her mouth to muffle her laughter as the man spluttered, wiping a sopping sleeve across his face. Briar laughed, too, but he ducked out of the window before they could spot him.
As he dropped to the floor, a sharp pain bit into his side. Briar winced. Under the coat, he had a strange blue-black bruise right over his ribs, crescent-shaped, like he’d been struck by something small and metal.
Briar pressed his fingers gingerly to the spot. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was hiding it from his brother and the castle healers, except that it seemed like a clue—proof of whatever he’d forgotten.
No one was willing to tell him anything, but Briar knew something had happened to him—something bad. The first few days after he woke, all of his limbs felt stiff and painful, his whole body sore like he’d been trampled under a horse. And then there was his magic.
Briar lifted his hand. Tiny white sparks crackled on his fingertips, but they fizzled out almost immediately. He could no longer feel that great shining well of magic inside him. He wasn’t sure if that was because he’d almost died or because of what he had become.
Briar had only been given the barest details of the final battle, but there was one thing no one could keep from him. When the hero of Andar broke the curse, Briar had not been waiting for her as the sleeping prince. He had lost himself to dark magic and turned into a monster, one who served the Spindle Witch.
Sage had told him not to think about it. Briar had tried to forget it—but how could he forget it when he didn’t remember it in the first place? His mind was a jumble of images he didn’t understand.
He looked over at the little vanity. The oval mirror was hidden by folds of gauze, one of the torn curtains from the canopy bed. Briar had covered it himself the first time he came up here to think, because for just one second, when he glanced into the glass, he swore he was looking into red eyes framed by curling white horns.
It was a memory, he was positive. One he might be better off not knowing—even it if meant never remembering her, either.
Briar pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. There was a person at the center of all his splintered memories: a girl with dark hair and arresting hazel-green eyes. He had woken in her arms in the library, and he didn’t think he’d ever forget that first glimpse of her: the desperate look on her face, the tears that had glittered like glass on her cheeks. Briar had always known he’d fall in love with the hero of Andar—it was destiny, as strong and sure as any love in the old fairy tales Camellia used to read him. But now he barely knew her, this girl, his savior—Filore.
They’d only brushed past each other since that first moment in the library, Briar whisked away by his brother and the Witches while Filore stayed with her companions. The closest they’d come was three days ago, when he found her working alongside a handful of castle staff cleaning up the library. From the upper balcony, he’d watched as she picked up a fallen book, cradling it lovingly and smoothing her fingers down the bent pages.
That was the first time Briar had a flash of memory—an image of Filore up a ladder in another library, with a soft coat and a smudge of ink on her face, smiling so brightly that just remembering it took his breath away.
Since then, flashes of her just kept coming, to the point that Briar thought he must be losing his mind. He knew this girl—knew her well. Maybe even loved her. Camellia’s spell might have led him to his destiny, but he couldn’t even remember.
The bells were ringing in the castle spire. Briar dropped his hands from his eyes and straightened his rich blue coat, tucking the white silk blouse carefully into his belt and dusting off his dark pants. His hair was still faintly damp from his bath. Soaking in the lavish tub, he had gotten one of his clearest memories yet: the silhouette of the girl behind a canvas screen, lifting her palm to him. There was something hesitant about the gesture, something that felt important. He’d wanted to take that hand so much he found himself reaching out through the steam, closing his fingers around empty air.
Footsteps on the tower stairs shook him out of it. “Prince Briar Rose,” called a soft voice, followed by the much more insistent, “Briar, you up here?”
The door swung open, revealing his brother Sage. At his back stood a soft-spoken man who had introduced himself as the Paper Witch.
“You know, there is no fashionably late to your own party,” Sage said, raising an eyebrow. Briar still wasn’t quite used to seeing his brother up and around instead of slumped lifeless in his throne. It made him grin every time.
“You didn’t have to come all the way up here just to get me,” Briar said.
“If you’re insinuating it’s too many stairs, I’ll remind you I’m not that old,” Sage said. His voice was stern, but Briar recognized the edge of a smirk pulling at his lips.
“You are a hundred and twenty-eight,” Briar pointed out, smiling back. “I admittedly ditched most of my history lessons, but I’m fairly sure that makes you the oldest king Andar’s ever had.” There was a name at the tip of his tongue, but he tripped over it. Filore. He wasn’t sure why he thought she’d know. Or why his body jerked toward the door like he couldn’t wait to run and ask her.
“Well, in that case, I’m looking forward to the rest of my two-hundred-year reign,” Sage joked.
Sage still wore his outfit from that morning’s ceremony, when the steward of Everlynd had formally returned the golden ruling scepter to the king. Briar had stood beside his brother on the dais in the great courtyard, looking out at the cheering crowd and the restored statues of the Great Witches smiling down on them. A heavy blue mantle swept from Sage’s shoulders over his intricately embroidered tunic, and a golden crown sparkling with sapphires sat on his brow. It suited him—far better than the golden circlet he waved in one hand suited Briar.
“You forgot this,” Sage said.
“Right.” Briar reached out hesitantly, but he didn’t take it.
Sage stepped over to the vanity, throwing aside the cloth like it was nothing. Briar’s heart lurched as the last layer of gauze was swept away, but only his own reflection stared back at him, blue eyes in a smooth face. He was pale, certainly—he’d gone a hundred years without sunlight—but not bone white. He was just Briar.
Sage settled the circlet on his head. “There,” he said. “Now you look the part.”
He squeezed Briar’s shoulder as they stood together in front of the mirror, their reflection framed by Camellia’s brilliant roses. Then Sage turned and headed for the door.
“I’ve got a few more things to take care of. Why don’t you escort your great-grandnephew to the party?”
The Witch in the silver-and-white robes inclined his head as the king passed, then moved to Briar. “Your Highness,” he said, the little bell in his hair tinkling like a laugh.
It was hard to offer his arm to a stranger who reminded him so much of Camellia. Worse, the Paper Witch was one of the people from Briar’s missing memories. Those blue eyes watched him expectantly, as if waiting for something, though Briar had no idea what.
Arm in arm, they moved down the tower stairs and headed for the grand ballroom. Briar could barely believe it was the same castle. The once-empty halls rang with chatter and laughter and raised voices. Men in soldiers’ tunics hustled by with heaping armfuls of bedding. The great entrance hall was filled with cots for all the new arrivals, and a group of children chased each other up the spiraling stairs, shouting joyfully as they replayed the battle for Andar. Briar took a corner too fast and nearly smacked into a tall woman with a cloud of dark hair who had been given the position of Captain of the Guard.
Even in his earliest memories, the castle had never been so full of people—or of hope. He even thought he’d seen a wolf padding through the halls the day before, its white tail twitching cheerfully.
Out the window, he caught a glimpse of the secret garden of the Rose Witches. The white marble of the memorial tree shone in the sunlight, painfully bare—but he could see the green wisps of rose vines curling around the trunk again, a few bright red buds just beginning to peek open. Briar looked at the man on his arm. The Paper Witch had been declared the new head of the Order of the Divine Rose, and there was no one Briar would rather the position went to than Camellia’s great-grandson.
The Paper Witch caught Briar’s gaze. “Have you remembered anything yet?” he asked.
Briar shifted uncomfortably. “Not really. Just flashes.” He shook away the thought of the creature in the mirror. “Maybe it’s better that way.”
They had nearly reached the door to the ballroom. The Paper Witch paused, covering Briar’s hand with his own. “You should not fear your memories, Briar Rose.” He looked suddenly older, his smile melancholy. “Your actions at the end were not your own. Not all of us can say the same of the choices we made. Many regrettable things were done in the service of breaking the curse—but every one of them brought us to this moment, and I would like to think that is reason enough to forgive ourselves.”
He had stopped them right at the top of the stairs. Through the doorway, the great ballroom shone like a painting—the tables gleaming, the blue pennants rippling, and the dance floor whirling with laughing couples, their voices ringing under the high ceiling studded with dazzling chandeliers. Dark oak columns framed a view of the wide balcony, all the doors thrown open to let in the dreamy blue twilight.
The Paper Witch smiled Camellia’s knowing smile. “This victory would not have been possible without you, too. Don’t forget that.”
Briar shook his head. “You have a lot of Camellia in you,” he told the man, as they were announced at the door. “And I mean that as a compliment.”
The Paper Witch tipped his head, his crystal earring glittering. “I can imagine no greater praise.”
They moved down into the crowd. The tables were filled with a hastily pulled-together feast—platters of ripe plums and figs and pomegranates salvaged from the gardens of Everlynd, baskets of golden bread from the fields to the south, and jars of candied honey and nuts that had survived a hundred years in the castle storehouses. There was even some dark wine that had been sent by the duchy on the border of Darfell, the casks stamped with the seal of Bellicia. More supply wagons were rolling in every day. The hodgepodge of summer fruits and vegetables and simple pies was hardly typical fare for a royal gathering, but nobody seemed to mind.
The mood in the hall was buoyant. A small group of musicians played a lively waltz, and couples spun across the floor, dappled by the light of the crystal chandeliers. People in their best finery and people in dusty traveling cloaks talked over full plates, Witches and soldiers poured each other drinks, and strangers hugged suddenly when they realized they were distant relatives separated for a hundred years. Briar tried to smile at all of them, hoping it was a noble, princely smile even though his cheeks felt rubbery and stretched.
A young man with dark, curly hair broke away from a circle where many of the older Witches were gathered. He was by far the youngest of the group. A wizened old Seer sat beside a man whose grizzled white hair was woven with little twigs and sticks, the sign of the Witches of the Wandering Roots. Briar recognized the court astronomer leaning heavily against the wall, his Celestial Stargazers robes glittering with embroidered stars. The young man flashed a wide smile as he approached, his blue robe shimmering around him like water.
“Dream Witch,” Briar greeted.
The young man blinked in surprise. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to get used to that,” he admitted, sharing a laugh with the Paper Witch.
Briar rubbed his neck, blushing faintly. He didn’t remember the Dream Witch’s real name, after all.
“It gets easier,” the Paper Witch promised. “And you’ve more than earned the title—as well as your new position on the Council of Magic.”
The young man flushed a little. “Youngest Witch ever to hold a seat,” he admitted with a teasing lilt.
“Perhaps I should have added, ‘Don’t let it go to your head,’ ” the Paper Witch mused.
“Never,” the Dream Witch promised. He turned to include Briar. “Have you seen the girls yet? I heard Shane had some kind of robe called a kyrtill made just for this.”
The Paper Witch gave a thoughtful hum. “Last I saw them, they were trying to make last-minute adjustments to Red’s dress.”
“Last you saw them . . . ?” the Dream Witch pressed.
“Let me rephrase,” the Paper Witch said. “Last I heard them, Red and Shane were bickering loudly enough that I could hear them from the hallway. I decided to let young Prince Briar escort me instead.”
Briar shifted his feet. He felt strangely cut out of the conversation. Sage had said the Dream Witch was a friend of his, and the girls in question, too. He should know these people, all of these people, but he didn’t. A huge part of his own life was a mystery to him.
The Dream Witch craned his head as he was called back to the circle of Witches. “I should go. It’s good to see you, Your Highness,” he added, clapping Briar on the shoulder.
Briar gave him a look. “If we were friends, I’m sure I told you to call me Briar.”
The Dream Witch grinned. “Must have slipped my mind,” he said, with a friendly wink that reminded Briar of the boy’s ancestor, the original Dream Witch. Then he headed back to the others, and the Paper Witch went with him, inclining his head to Briar before turning away.
Briar drifted into the room, at a loss. He wandered past the feast tables, his eyes catching on the long vines of blooming roses wound between the serving platters. Sage stood at the head of the hall, surrounded by a knot of councilors.
Briar declined an offer to dance from a pretty young woman in a pink gown, taking a glass of wine instead. He almost choked on the first swallow when the herald announced: “The heroes of Andar: Lady Filore Nenroa of Darfell, the huntsman Shane Ragnall of the Steelwight Islands, and the descendant of the Snake Witch, Red of Andar.”
Briar spun around. Three girls stood framed in the doorway, the crowd cheering and applauding as they descended the sweeping staircase that was draped with blue cloth and tiny twinkling lanterns. The short brown-haired girl, Shane, threw Filore a victorious grin. And though Filore rolled her eyes, Briar could tell she was fighting not to smile.
Shane wore something fashioned after the styles from her home country: a long tunic belted and cloaked by a dark green mantle pinned to her shoulder. She moved like a fighter, pounding down the steps in heavy wedge-heeled boots.
The girl on her arm was even shorter, beautiful and curvy with a wild mass of loose curls that tumbled around her. She wore a red ball gown with a heart-shaped top and a wide gauzy skirt that swished as she moved. Briar’s heart swelled to see them together, though he had no idea why.
Filore hung back at the top of the stairs, wearing a long sheath dress of midnight blue with short sleeves that dangled over her shoulders. Her brown hair was tied off in a small ponytail, the long silver ribbon trailing down her back. The dress flattered her, but mostly she just looked stiff and out of place—not like herself at all. Briar wasn’t sure where the thought came from. He just knew that when he pictured Filore, it was always in a dusty jacket. Maybe with a wide-brimmed hat.
For one second, her eyes found his. Briar’s heart leapt into his throat.
He didn’t know how he knew these things. He didn’t know why he wanted to break through the crowd and run to her, to sweep her into his arms, but he did, and he wasn’t going to hide from that anymore—not from his memories, and not from the girl at the heart of them. If he didn’t know Filore Nenroa, then he wanted to. Briar set his glass aside, making his way across the room to where she had disappeared in the crowds.
He stepped aside as Shane and Red swept past, already caught up in the dance. Red’s dress fluttered around her as she spun under Shane’s arm, the two of them moving flawlessly together. Shane broke from the steps of the dance, pulling her partner in so close Red squeaked in surprise.
“See, I dance just fine,” Shane said. Briar couldn’t see her expression, but he could see the way Red scrunched up her nose.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t dance—I said we wouldn’t match!” she protested, clearly continuing some earlier argument. She pouted as Shane pressed their palms together, circling slowly. “Your costume is green and rustic, and mine is . . .”
“Perfect,” Shane finished. They had turned all the way around, and Briar could see the broad smile on Shane’s face, her eyes soft as she looked at Red. “And we fit together perfectly.” She leaned in to catch Red’s surprised lips in a kiss, and Briar turned away, feeling like he was spying on a private moment. Though, if they wanted privacy, he’d recommend somewhere other than the middle of the dance floor.
At last, he had spotted Filore. He ignored all the curious eyes that followed him as he made his way to the banquet table, where Filore had moved aside a plate of fruit and seemed to be inspecting the silver charger beneath it. She was bent forward, her fingers tracing the pattern of twining roses that ran around the edge.
“Found something interesting?” Briar asked, leaning against the table.
Filore didn’t look up, distracted. “I think I’ve seen other pieces by this same artist elsewhere in the castle. See the whorls in the rose vines? They’re almost like a signature. Some of this looks like Divine Rose script, but that can’t be right—what spell would they bind into a plate?”
Filore circled a clump of roses with her finger, looking up absently. Then she straightened with a jerk, letting the charger thud back onto the table.
“Briar,” she said, surprised.
Briar. Warmth surged through him when she said his name. He was mesmerized by the small dusting of pink on her cheeks. He liked that. He had a feeling he’d spent a lot of time trying to make her blush.
The scent of the roses swirled around him. Briar took a deep breath. This was destiny standing right in front of him. It didn’t matter if he had his memories—all that mattered was that they were together, right now, and he had a chance to get everything he’d dreamed of for so long.
Briar held out his hand. “There is a dance floor . . . unless you’re more interested in the flatware?”
Filore gave him a sharp look, but he could see the flush deepening in her cheeks. “Are you asking me to dance?” she wanted to know.
“Only if you’re willing to risk it,” Briar conceded. “I have to warn you, I’m—”
“A terrible dancer,” Filore finished, arching one eyebrow. “I know.”
She knew him, too. That agonizing pit of emptiness inside him was where a part of her was supposed to be, a part he’d lost. He had to find it again. Briar bowed with a flourish and brushed his lips against the backs of his fingers, surprised when Filore mirrored him. Then he took her hand and pulled her into the dance.
He kept to the edge, under the arched picture windows, where they wouldn’t be in the way of other couples. Briar tried not to step on her feet, but it was hard when he could barely tear his eyes away from her. Filore was just as bad as he was—she kept turning the wrong way, bumping into his chest as they both tried to lead, and when they executed a jerky spin, he was very nearly elbowed in the face. Filore smiled, trying to untangle them without letting go of his hand.
That grudging little smile encouraged him. Briar dragged her back toward him, their palms gliding together, and then hooked his arm around her waist and pivoted into a twirl, loving the way Filore’s eyes flared in surprise. He tripped over someone’s trailing cape and almost took her down in a heap, but it was worth it to watch Filore throw her head back, laughing so hard she couldn’t speak.
Briar couldn’t speak, either. A thousand tiny slivers of memory couldn’t compare to the happiness he felt having her right next to him, smiling and laughing in his arms. If he couldn’t have those memories back, then he wanted to make a thousand more. He would take Filore to the library and let her tell him what she loved about history, he would round up all the flatware in the entire castle for her inspection, and he would dance with her until she was sick of him tripping over her feet. This was the love he had waited a hundred years for. He wanted to spend a lifetime laughing with her.
His heart was racing as they spun again, a breathless whirl across the floor that left him dizzy and Filore gasping. He drew her close as the music swelled. “There’s only one way to end a dance like this,” he whispered.
Filore’s expression was intoxicating. “Don’t drop me,” she warned playfully.
Briar’s mind was on fire with a memory—another night spent dancing, Filore in a skull mask and a red cape swirling from Briar’s shoulders as they spun in front of a shining wall of mirrors. The moments overlapped as Briar bent Filore over his arm in a sweeping dip. She grabbed at his sleeve to keep from falling, and they straightened quickly, wheezing and laughing. He wasn’t sure if he was remembering being in love with her or if he had fallen in love all over again.
Filore searched his face. “Come on,” she said, tugging him out onto the wide balcony.
Briar followed. He took a deep breath of the night air, not at all sorry to leave the party behind. He loved his brother, and all the people of Andar, but the castle had always been a cage to him, even before he fell under the curse. Now the whole world was open to him. He could go anywhere, see anything—with anyone.
Filore leaned against the banister overgrown with roses, the lush blossoms climbing the wrought-iron rails and spilling onto the marble floor. The sun had long set, and the clear sky twinkled with stars. It felt like the stars were all around them, too—little bits of pollen and seed pods drifted through the air, lit by the silver moonlight. The wind sang in the bells strung through the willow trees. Filore’s skin had a warm glow, and her eyes glittered as she looked out over the rest of the sprawling castle.
Briar moved to her side, their shoulders brushing as he rested his elbows on the rail. “We owe you everything,” he said softly. “You saved all of Andar—and you saved me, Filore.”
Her smile was wistful, as though that had been almost exactly what she wanted to hear. Briar’s chest squeezed. He studied her face, desperate for the answers that were locked away inside him. Then suddenly the air was full of butterflies—tiny blue-and-white butterflies rising from the glistening roses and shivering in the air between them.
Filore’s eyes widened. “Briar,” she whispered. She lifted her hand, and Briar saw a small pink mark that looked like a scar on her palm. It almost had the shape of a butterfly, though it looked like it had healed a long time ago. The butterflies drifted upward, flitting away from them, and Filore’s smile turned sad. Briar swallowed. Butterflies meant something to her—maybe everything. He couldn’t let this moment end so soon.
Small wishes. Camellia’s refrain whispered through him.
Briar felt something ignite in his chest—something he had thought he might never feel again. He lifted his hand, and, almost unbidden, his light magic jumped to his fingers. The heat of it blazed in his veins. White sparks glittered in the dark between them. This was a memory, too—his magic sparkling like stars in Filore’s eyes as she leaned toward him, her lips just parted.
“Briar, I . . .” she began. Briar held his breath.
“Prince Briar Rose!” a low voice called.
His magic fizzled and vanished. The call was accompanied by the sound of spoons clinking against glasses, the newly restored king proposing a toast.
“Filore . . .” Briar said, trying to ignore it.
“Your Highness!” the voice called again, more insistently.
Filore ducked her head, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. “You may not remember this, but your steward, Nikor, is a bit high-strung. He’s not going to stop looking till he finds you. You’re holding up the toasts.” She reached up, tapping Briar’s nose and then spinning him around, giving him a gentle shove toward the door.
Briar hesitated. “What about you?”
“I’m going to stay out here a few more minutes,” Filore said, watching one of the butterflies settle back into the cradle of a rose.
“But I’ll see you later, right?” Briar pressed. Lord Nikor stood in the doorway, gesturing impatiently for him to hurry.
“Absolutely,” Filore promised, her eyes bright. “See you later.”
Briar shot one last glance over his shoulder, drinking in the sight of her framed against the white curtain of the willows. Then he turned away. For just a moment, he’d thought about climbing down the roses with her and escaping into the night. Why was he so sure that if he asked to her jump, she would?
the party dragged on into the late hours of the night. Briar tried to find Filore once the toasts were over, but no matter how many times he circled the great hall, she was nowhere to be found. He wondered if she’d already retreated to her room. It was a few hours before he could get away from all of the lords and council members and new citizens of Andar who wanted to wish him well—but as soon as he could, he ducked out of the hall and headed up the darkened stairs toward the southern wing, where the guests of honor had been staying.
Briar knocked softly on the door. “Filore . . . ?” he called. He trailed off as the door swung back on its own, unlatched.
Briar’s mouth went dry. The room was empty, the bed was made, and the desk was barren, as if no one had ever stayed here. No pack. No traveling hat. No hero of Andar. The only thing left was the blue sheath dress hanging in the armoire, its long ribbon fluttering in the breeze from the open window.
“Filore?” he called again, though he knew it was useless. He could feel panic crawling up his throat.
“She’s gone, Your Highness.”
Briar whirled to find a young maid standing in the doorway. She clutched an empty tea tray against her dress, bowing low.
“She left during the party. She’d been packed since this afternoon, with a horse readied . . . I thought you knew she wasn’t planning to stay.”
Briar could feel the girl’s concerned eyes on him, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. His mind was a complete blank. The entire party—while they’d danced, while she’d spun in his arms, while he’d fallen more in love with her with every passing second—she’d already been planning to leave him.
He felt cold from the inside out. He recognized that feeling all too well. It was loneliness—the same bone-deep loneliness he’d lived for a hundred years, waiting for her. Briar barely felt himself stumble out of the room and begin walking.
He wasn’t surprised to find himself back in the white tower. Briar sat in the window thronged in roses, scanning the empty horizon as he tried to make sense of this strange feeling of betrayal. Filore hadn’t made him any promises, so she couldn’t have betrayed him. But that didn’t ease the bitter ache in his heart, like something had been ripped out of him. When she’d leaned toward him on the balcony, he’d thought . . .
Briar thudded his fist against the wall. What did it matter? She was gone. Even if he loved her, leaving was her answer. Destiny, fate, choice, love . . . It didn’t matter what they’d had, because it was over. If that’s what she wanted, Briar would let her go.
A perfect rose seemed to be glowing at the edge of the sill, winking with dewdrops in the silver moonlight. Briar reached for it, mesmerized as a droplet hung on the edge of a petal like a tear shivering from an eyelash. He hissed and yanked his hand back as something sharp bit into his flesh. One of the thorns had pricked him. The silence rushed in his ears as Briar turned his hand over, watching a thick drop of blood well up on his finger and encircle it like a curl of scarlet thread.
A drop of blood, a drop of hope . . .
The words poured into his mind, and with them came all the rest of his memories, finally unleashed, surging through him like a great torrent—the bone spindle, the Paper Witch, Shane, Perrin, Red, Everlynd, and Fi. It was like he was reliving all their moments together—the dancing, the laughter, the arguments, the kisses, and the promise he had made her under a starlit sky just like this one: to give everything up, to leave with her and follow wherever she led.
Fi hadn’t broken her promise. Briar had broken his. That was why his heart felt like it’d been ripped out.
He knew what he had to do.
“Thank you,” Briar whispered, brushing the droplet from the rose. He wasn’t sure if these roses really had any magic left, but he was sure it was his sister, Camellia, who had helped him remember.
Briar leapt down from the window and raced for the tower stairs. He was at least four hours behind her, with no time to waste. He was going after Fi, and this time, nothing would stop him.