THEY RODE HARD THROUGH the woods, arriving back in the King’s City just before sundown. The gate slammed closed behind them, ringing like a tune. Outside the king’s stables, Lament came to a halt. She shook her black mane and stomped the ground, sparks flaring beneath her hooves, as if calling for attention.
Hawthorne dismounted, his movements heavy and sluggish.
Emeline sat frozen in the saddle, clutching the leather satchel to her chest, tacky with dried saliva. Claw’s last words swirled around her mind, like water in a draining sink.
He betrays you in the end!
What did it mean?
Claw knew Hawthorne was searching his lair, just like he knew Lament stood waiting at the top of the cliff. So why did Hawthorne tell her that Claw got confused?
Claw can see things. The future, the present, and the past. He just can’t tell you which one is which.
Unless Hawthorne lied.
It wouldn’t be the first time he lied, and it would make a kind of sense. If Hawthorne intended to betray Emeline, he wouldn’t want her listening to an all-seeing dragon who might spill all his plans.
You mustn’t listen to a word he says, he’d told her before they climbed down to the aerie.
If Hawthorne had malicious intent, if he knew Claw could see the future and might tell that future to Emeline, wasn’t that exactly what he’d say?
For a fraction of a second, Emeline wanted to dig her heels into Lament and gallop back to Edgewood. She wanted to run. Except Hawthorne still gripped the reins and Lament was spent. Sweat glistened across her back and foam glazed her lips.
Most of all, though: Pa was still a prisoner.
Calm down. You can handle this.
It didn’t make sense that Hawthorne would endanger her. He’d saved her from a shadow skin, then put her on his horse to prevent her from being trampled by ember mares. Today, he’d given her the rope and caught her when she fell.
She was sure he didn’t want to harm her.
But he had deceived her. And he clearly didn’t want her here, in the Wood King’s domain. Perhaps that’s the type of betrayal Claw meant—one that would sabotage her ability to come through on her deal. One that would prevent her from bringing Pa home.
Emeline watched the tithe collector press his hand to the stable wall, wincing at whatever pain Claw had inflicted.
One thing was certain: if Hawthorne was planning to betray her, she needed to be ready for it.
THAT EVENING, AS THE moon rose in a black sky, Emeline’s attendants swarmed her as she stepped out of her bath. She was too tired to fight them off.
Her body ached. She never rode horses. Riding one for a whole day—not to mention scaling up and down a rocky cliff—had taken its toll. Muscles she didn’t even realize she had screamed at her.
But her sore body was the least of her concerns.
Now that she’d obtained the Song Mage’s music, she had a week to prove herself to the king and, after Pa went free, find a way to escape. If she didn’t escape, she’d miss her tour.
She remembered the schedule sitting in her inbox. The one Joel had told her to review and send back to The Perennials.
Emeline grabbed her cell phone from where it lay on the dressing table, amidst combs and pins and ribbons, but there were no bars.
She tightened her grip on the phone. Of course. She was trapped in a strange, fey world with no cell towers or wireless internet. But if a week went by and neither her manager nor Joel heard from her, they would do any number of things: they would think her missing; Joel would come looking for her; her manager would cancel her tour—he’d have to.
The thought gave her heart palpitations.
It was her first major tour, and she’d worked her ass off to get it. To cancel now was to say good-bye to all of the exposure, sales, and income from each show. She would tarnish her reputation as a professional musician, and worst of all …
They want to see how you handle a bigger audience, Joel had told her. They’re coming to watch you again, at your first tour stop.
If she wasn’t at that first stop, Daybreak definitely wouldn’t offer her a contract.
Emeline had worked too hard for too long to make it this far. She couldn’t let it all fall apart now. If she could somehow tell her manager she was fine, that she’d be back soon—if she could tell him not to cancel her tour—maybe her career would still be intact when she got back.
Except how was she supposed to tell him all that from here?
A pang of homesickness pierced her. She wanted her life back. The ordinary, familiar one where dragons didn’t want to eat her and boys weren’t waiting to betray her and the only strangeness in her life was the woods appearing at inopportune times.
She missed the lights and sounds of Montreal. She missed her late-night gigs. She even missed her cramped apartment.
Emeline’s attendants fluttered like moths as they dressed her, oblivious to her unhappiness. They helped her into a midnight-blue gown with two glittering cicada wings stitched down the back in gold thread, cascading from the middle of her shoulder blades to the tops of her thighs. The attendants undid her braid, then brushed out her hair. As they tugged at the knots, a knock sounded at the door, breaking up her thoughts.
“Be right there.”
Finished with their fussing, her attendants removed themselves, opening the door as they fled.
Rooke stood in the frame, sidestepping the women. He looked tall and slender in a midnight-black overcoat that came to his knees, and over his heart a silver feather brooch winked in the light.
“I’ve been charged with escorting you to dinner.” He gave a roguish grin as he held his arm out to her. “Hurry now. Else we’ll be late.”
With her hand tucked into his elbow, Rooke led Emeline down halls awash in the golden hues of sunset. Vases bordering the windows sprouted green pine boughs and branches of bright red sumac. As Emeline quickened her pace to match his long strides, the fabric of her dress whispered against the floor.
“I must say,” said Rooke as they passed window after window looking out over the dusk-drenched city, “it’s a pleasure to see you’re still alive.”
Emeline shot him a look, remembering what Hawthorne said—about her predecessors and their untimely deaths.
“You might have mentioned the dangers before I agreed to be the king’s singer,” she said as they arrived at the end of the hall, where two large arching doors were flung wide and bordered by hedgemen in bronze armor. The smells of roasted meat and pungent spices wafted out, followed by clinking silverware and conversation.
“Would it have made a difference?”
Before she could answer, Rooke pulled her into a darkened ballroom.
The ceiling was the height of her grandfather’s barn, and Emeline counted four exits, each one guarded by a pair of hedgemen. Candles burned along the walls in iron brackets, their honey-colored wax dripping to the floor. Long tables set with food were arranged in a circle, and in the center a band of musicians played while couples danced. Over their heads, fireflies flickered intermittently.
As Rooke led her towards the tables, conversations quieted around them. Eyes widened and heads turned as the dining courtiers whispered behind their hands, watching the king’s new minstrel.
More than once, Emeline heard her name.
Placing bets on how long I’ll last?
Rooke sidestepped benches and bodies, maneuvering Emeline towards a nearly full table close to a massive fireplace set into the far wall. Emeline spotted Sable Thorne first, seated near the crackling fire, its flames setting her golden skin aglow. Her russet hair was unruly, but someone had managed to pin it up, tucking a sprig of rosehip into the brown folds.
She looked … wild and pretty.
Beside her sat Hawthorne.
His gray woolen shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, showing off darkly tanned forearms. Both he and Sable sat on the bench against the wall. But while Sable leaned into the shadows, one arm looped around her knee, Hawthorne leaned over his drink, listening to a young woman across from him, her hands animated and her face alight.
“Friends!” Rooke roared over the din of their conversation. “Meet the king’s new minstrel: Emeline Lark.”
The whole table went quiet at their arrival, turning. Some lifted their drinks in welcome; others smiled wine-bright smiles behind their goblets; still others stared, their hungry eyes searching her. Emeline’s skin warmed beneath their gazes as Rooke pushed her towards the one empty spot on the bench, right next to Hawthorne—who quickly glanced away from her. But not before Emeline glimpsed something wild flash in his eyes.
The only other person who didn’t look her way was Sable.
“Good evening, singer,” said Hawthorne, staring firmly into his cup as she shuffled in beside him.
“Hello, Tithe Collector.”
In the cramped space beneath the table, their knees brushed, and the jolt of it startled Emeline. Like two polarized magnets, they simultaneously leaned away from each other.
Rooke slid in on Emeline’s other side, trapping her between them. Hawthorne shot Rooke an accusatory look. Ignoring it, Rooke shouted to Sable, “Where’s Grace?”
Sable pointed her thumb in the direction of the dancers.
Hawthorne reached for a copper pitcher filled with a honey-gold liquid that smelled like wine.
“I’m afraid I have unfortunate news.” It took a moment for Emeline to realize Hawthorne was talking to her and not to the pitcher of wine as he filled her glass. “Your singing instructor was attacked by shadow skins on the road. She survived, but her horse did not. I’ve sent an armed guard to escort her. Depending on what they encounter on the way, it could be a few days before she arrives in the city.”
Emeline reached for her glass, cupping it with both hands. “But if I need to learn the songs within the week…”
He nodded. “It won’t be enough time.” He refilled Sable’s glass, Rooke’s, and finally his own. After setting the pitcher down, he said, very softly, “I could do it in the meantime.”
She turned to stare at him. “You?”
“I can read music,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Which, I understand, is all you need.”
The prospect of working one-on-one with him made her break out in a hot rash. Claw’s words echoed through her mind: He betrays you in the end!
“Is there no one else?” She pointed to the musicians currently playing a waltz in the middle of the room. “One of them, maybe? Someone who…” Isn’t you. “Someone who knows what they’re doing?”
He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it instead.
“There are many capable musicians in the king’s court. Unfortunately, none of them are willing to risk their lives for what they consider a doomed cause. It’s why I had to reach out to another court. Calliope has agreed to be your instructor at great risk to herself.”
Emeline frowned. What risk?
“If you’d prefer to wait until she arrives…”
“You said you don’t know when that will be.”
He nodded.
“And I only have a week to learn the Song Mage’s music.”
“Correct.”
“Which means I don’t really have a choice, do I? If I want to learn the songs, I need to get started as soon as possible. And if you’re the only one willing to help me…”
It has to be you.
“I suggest we begin at dawn tomorrow,” he said, sensing her defeat. “I’ll tell your attendants to take you to the conservatory first thing in the morning.”
Hawthorne turned away from her then, signaling the end of the conversation, and returned to the girl across from him, who Emeline heard him refer to as Aspen. The girl smiled sweetly as they resumed their chat.
Could this day get any worse?
Someone farther down the table cleared their throat. “Tell us, singer. How did you vanquish him?”
Emeline looked up to find most guests at the table setting down their silverware and leaning in. As if they’d all been waiting for this.
The question came from a freckled young man whose large brown eyes reminded her of a fawn. His shaggy hair framed his pale face, shining like copper. “No one has ever come back from the dragon’s aerie. But here you are.”
No one? She stole a pointed glance at Hawthorne.
“It’s true,” said a girl with foxlike features and hair as white as frost. “The king has made several attempts to retrieve the music. The men and women he sent never returned.”
“Oh. Well, um, I didn’t vanquish Claw.”
“Then how are you sitting before us? Hawthorne says you successfully retrieved the music.”
They all murmured their assent, staring at Emeline as if she were a god who’d waltzed straight out of a Greek myth. Like golden Artemis striding out of the woods after a successful hunt, a prize deer slung over her shoulders.
She shook her head. “I only sang to him.”
Puzzled silence filled the table. Emeline felt the sudden weight of Hawthorne’s stare. She didn’t meet it.
“I … sang him to sleep, I mean.”
It sounded absurd to her now, as gazes met over goblets and plates of food. They think I’m making it up.
Except no. They didn’t.
The freckled young man raised his glass. “To Emeline Lark,” he said softly. “Conqueror of dragons.”
One by one, the rest of the table raised their glasses, echoing his toast. Reverently whispering her name like she was some kind of hero. Heat crept into her cheeks. She tipped her face to her empty gold-rimmed plate. “I didn’t…” But no one was listening. They were all chattering excitedly in the wake of her story. Emeline could already hear them embellishing the details.
“Don’t mind them, dearie,” chimed a singsong voice across from Emeline, cutting through the noise around her. “It’s been years since they’ve had good news.”
Emeline looked up and found an owlish face peering straight into hers. Tawny hair curled in short ringlets around the girl’s head, and her amber eyes were a little too big for the rest of her dainty features. “I’m Nettle.”
“Lovely to meet you, Nettle.”
“Are you enjoying your stay?”
Emeline blinked, not sure how to answer. Yes, she thought, sipping her drink. It’s so fun being imprisoned by a creepy king, nearly eaten by a crusty old dragon, and utterly cut off from everything I love.
She thought of her phone. Without a signal, she couldn’t contact Joel, and soon her battery would be dead. But maybe it wasn’t the only way to reach him. Maybe someone here could help her.
“I would enjoy my stay more if I could get a message to someone. So he knows I’m all right. Is there a way to do that? Send a message home?”
If she could get a message to Joel explaining that she was … temporarily detained … he could tell his dad not to worry, that she would be there ready to go on opening night.
Nettle reached across the table, taking Emeline’s hands from where they cupped her glass and clasping them in her own. Her fingers were rough, and a little curved. Almost like talons. But when Emeline looked … no. They were definitely fingers, with perfectly rounded nails painted in gold. She shook off the disorienting feeling as the shiftling leaned in.
“Poor thing.” Nettle’s voice turned whispery. As if they were friends confiding in each other. “This young man you left behind, is he … a lover?”
Beside her, Hawthorne choked on his wine.
Emeline blushed red. “Um.”
Nettle tsked sadly. “They often have lovers, the singers who end up here.”
Alerted by Hawthorne’s choking, Rooke leaned in. “Don’t mind Nettle. She hasn’t been properly socialized.”
Tugging her hands free from Nettle’s, Emeline took a big, long sip of her drink and desperately wished this conversation was over. From the look on the shiftling’s face, however, she was still waiting for an answer.
Is he a lover?
The night she first invited Joel up to her hotel room, it was because of the woods. She’d been traveling the summer festival circuit, trying, as always, to outrun the dark thing chasing her. But it always caught up, creeping through crowd after crowd, slinking towards the stages where she sang.
But it wasn’t only the relentlessness of the woods; it was the ache that seemed to grow with every performance. That cavernous gap between her ribs, as if something there was missing, only she didn’t know what. It made her feel like a puzzle with a lost piece. Sometimes after a gig, she would lie awake in her bed, rubbing at the place in the middle of her chest where she imagined the hole to be.
She’d grown so tired of running from it—the woods and the ache. Joel was there, and he wanted her. He’d made that very clear. Always texting and flirting and inviting her out with his friends, coming to all her shows, then walking her home when they ended.
So, just like all the others before him, Emeline let Joel in, erecting him as a shield between herself and the things she was running from, using him as a way to feign normalcy.
“You poor, poor thing.” Nettle patted Emeline’s hands, deciding the answer to her own question. “So tragic.” She sighed, almost happily, as if she relished a good tragedy.
“Save your pity.” Hawthorne’s voice was barbed. “Emeline was warned. I actively dissuaded her from coming.”
Emeline scoffed. “Actively deceived me is more like it.”
His gaze cut to her, gray eyes flashing silver in the dusky light. “The singer didn’t heed me,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Now she’s suffering the consequences.”
Emeline’s hands dropped to her dress, where they clutched the fabric, wrinkling the midnight-blue silk. “If you hadn’t stolen my grandfather,” she hissed under her breath, “I wouldn’t have had to heed you. I would never have come to the woods at all!”
Before he could answer, the girl he’d been conversing with earlier cut in.
“Couldn’t you deliver the message, Hawthorne?” She was long boned and delicate, with white-gold lashes and eyes like soft gems. She glanced to the ring on Hawthorne’s hand, a stark white band against his light brown skin. Emeline hadn’t noticed it before. “You’re the tithe collector. You can walk deep into her world whenever and wherever you want.”
“Yes, Hawthorne,” said Sable, crossing her arms. A small frown creased her brow as something unspoken passed between them. “Couldn’t you do it?”
Hope flickered inside Emeline. Could he?
Hawthorne stared straight ahead, at no one in particular. “I believe I just gave my opinion on the matter.”
“Your opinion,” said Emeline, suddenly desperate to convince him. Her career depended on it. “But not your answer.”
He shot her a piercing look. “I’m not delivering a love letter to your boyfriend. Is that answer enough?”
“It wouldn’t be—”
“Emeline.” He ground out her name through the stubborn clench of his jaw. “Don’t ask me again.”
Rooke narrowed his eyes. “Really, Hawthorne. Must you be so disagreeable?”
As the two boys glared at each other, Nettle quickly smiled at Emeline. Only the smile was all wrong. It curled in a way that suggested she was something playing at being human. “Don’t mind him, dearie. Hawthorne was in love once too.” That smile turned into a slithering, snakelike thing. Lashing out to bite. “Weren’t you, Tithe Collector?”
A muscle jumped in Hawthorne’s jaw. He stared at the ceiling, like a wild creature suddenly realizing it was trapped in a cage.
The table went silent around them. Tension radiated off Hawthorne like steam as he gripped his glass tightly. To no one in particular, he said, “Excuse me.”
In one fluid motion, he rose from the bench, pushed away from the table, and left his empty cup behind. Emeline stared after him.
What the heck was that about?
Sable and Rooke exchanged glances.
“I’ll go,” said Rooke, a frown bending his mouth. Rising from the bench, he strode after the tithe collector weaving through the thickening mass of guests in the hall.
Nettle tutted sympathetically, watching them go. She leaned across the table towards Emeline. “They say it was a human who made him so horrible. Broke his heart right in half. He’s never been the same.”
“That’s enough.” Sable’s voice slashed the air like a knife, her golden eyes glowing brightly as she leaned in from her place by the fire. “Go spread your poison elsewhere, Nettle.”
The owlish courtier bristled. She looked ready to lash back when a shadow fell across the table. Sable glanced up, and whatever she saw made her soften like warm butter.
“Emeline?” said a feminine voice. “Emeline Lark?”
Emeline’s gaze shot upwards. Confusion clouded her mind at the familiar face looking down on her. For a moment, she didn’t understand who she was seeing.
And then: “Grace?”
Emeline rose to her feet.
Standing at the edge of the table was Grace Abel. The girl who left Edgewood last summer, after her parents gave her an ultimatum: go to university, or find somewhere else to live.
Grace’s night-dark curls gleamed around her face and shoulders, luminous in the candlelight. Her hips were fuller and her nut-brown cheeks rosier than the last time Emeline had seen her. She wore a flowing silk shirt tucked into fitted cream trousers, and a simple iron ring adorned her finger.
What the hell are you doing here? said the look on Grace’s face.
The exact same question echoed through Emeline.
Stepping closer, Grace drew Emeline out and away from the table, then into a tight hug. She smelled like lavender. But her grip on Emeline was too tight, and her voice was a warning. “Come with me. Now.”
Before Emeline could react, Grace drew back. She smiled brightly at those still seated. Her voice was liquid sunlight with no hint of any secrets as she held her hand out to Emeline and said, “Care to dance?”