THE STORM STARTED AS she said her good-byes. After she hugged her mother tight, Pa helped Emeline into one of his rain jackets, which was two sizes too big but would keep her dry. She kissed his stubbled cheek, braced herself, then stepped out into the storm.
The rain came down in sheets, drenching her as she moved towards the tree line, where she’d left Lament to graze. A thick gray fog hung over everything, blocking her view of the woods. Unable to make out edges or shapes, she slowed her steps and followed the voices of the trees—which were calling for her.
Emeline, they hushed. Hurry!
They sounded frantic. Frowning, she reached her hand through the fog, trying to ensure she didn’t walk into something. When her fingertips brushed against trembling cedar needles, she knew she’d reached the hedge. Following it along the tree line, she moved towards the spot where her hawthorn was rooted, calling for Lament.
When the ember mare neither whickered nor trod towards her, Emeline started to worry. Lament always waited when she visited Edgewood and always came when she called.
Cr-crack!
Lightning flashed, illuminating an empty space in the hedge.
Emeline froze.
Her hawthorn was gone.
The earth was ragged and raw, a dark spot against the melting snow around it. As if the tree had pulled itself out—roots and all—leaving a gaping hole behind.
Emeline’s pulse quickened.
A raven came out of the fog, soaring towards her though the trees. Rooke. He flapped his wings against the deluge of rain, then flew around her head, screeching.
Awk! Awk!
He flew back into the woods.
Emeline raced after him.
The fog sank lower as she moved deeper in, clinging to her waist, then hovering below her knees. The rain had turned the earth to mud beneath her boots, and more than once she slipped.
Rooke flew ahead, fluttering from tree to glistening tree. Half stumbling, she followed after him, until a sound made her stop.
Emeline listened, but all she heard was the rain battering the trees and the river gurgling nearby. When lightning flickered, she saw its shining banks through the branches.
She was about to keep going when she heard it again: a voice calling out. Her heart beat like a wild animal in a cage. Blinking the rain out of her eyes, she turned in a circle, scanning. But all she saw were trees and rain and fog.
Again, the voice called. Louder this time.
Emeline bolted towards it. Her jeans were drenched and splattered in mud now. She ran and slid. She tripped and fell.
And then she saw him.
Hawthorne.
He stood at the bottom of a steep hill. One that dropped off sharply into the river below, the water rising towards him due to all the melt.
Lightning flickered above the woods, shining on his bare skin and dark hair. He was beautiful and naked and covered in mud. Surrounded by thorny brambles, he clung to a birch to keep from sliding farther.
At the top of the hill stood Lament, pawing the ground, whinnying anxiously as she stared down at her rider, unable to get to him.
When Emeline screamed his name above the rain, Hawthorne looked up. Their eyes met—those eyes she loved so much—and Emeline saw he was quaking with cold.
“Hold on.…”
Grabbing one tree after another, she slowly made her way down the muddy hill. Halfway down, she slipped and fell, sliding the rest of the way on her bottom.
Planting her feet, Emeline rose unsteadily. Standing only a few paces away from him, she saw the scratches along his legs. Places where the thorns had cut deep and left blood smeared across his skin.
“Don’t move, okay?”
Hawthorne stood silent, watching her.
She stepped towards him, tamping down arching strands of thorns with her boots, moving those close to him away with her fingers. Her hands shook. Her whole body shook.
“How did you get yourself into this mess?” she murmured.
She wanted to throw her arms around him, but the thorns between them stopped her.
Except it wasn’t just the thorns.
There was something else.
Hawthorne was looking at her the way Pa sometimes did, when he was having trouble placing her. On his very bad days.
When she reached to touch him, he flinched away.
“Who are you?” he asked.
A chill sliced through Emeline at that question. Her fingers quickly retreated.
“You don’t remember,” she said, not believing it at first.
But the wary look on his face remained.
He didn’t know her.
Just get him out of the storm, she told herself, trying to ignore the panic lighting her up inside.
If he didn’t remember …
Thunder rumbled. Emeline raised her voice above it: “We need to get you somewhere warm!”
She had no idea how long he’d been out in the rain and the cold, had no idea if hypothermia would—or already had—set in.
She trembled and rushed, her hands shakily grabbing at thorns, avoiding those empty eyes. The thorns pricked her, one after another, until her hands were slippery with blood and rain. She tugged and yanked, pulling fiercely, trying to get him free.
“Stop.” His voice was rough and soft all at once. “You’re hurting yourself.”
“It’s fine.”
He reached for her chin with quivering, ice-cold fingers and raised her eyes to his, studying her as if she were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
“It doesn’t look fine to me,” he said, his forehead creasing.
Despite the chill of his touch, warmth bloomed beneath her skin. She slid her face out of his grasp and changed the subject. “How long have you been out here?”
But she could tell he didn’t remember.
“We have to get you home.”
When she finally untangled him from the thorns, she unzipped Pa’s jacket and put it on him. Together, they climbed the hill. Emeline grabbed on to the nearest tree, then pulled Hawthorne up; he reached for the next one and did the same for her, until they were at the top. She helped him onto Lament, then followed up behind, looping her arms around his waist.
The whole way back to the city, their bodies convulsed with cold. Emeline clung to him, trying to keep them both warm.
Lament soon flew through the city gate, swift as the wind. When they arrived at the creek near his house, they found the water risen beyond the bank. It rushed across the bridge, flooding over Lament’s hooves.
In the yard, Emeline helped Hawthorne down.
“This way,” she said, heading towards the house, unable to stop her teeth from chattering. Her wet jeans chafed her skin, her sweater was soaked through, and her hair hung in cold, wet clumps down her back.
Wrapping her arm around his waist, Emeline pulled him against her, trying to lend him what little body heat she had left. He paused, hesitant, then slid his arm across her shoulders. Doing the same.
“What are you doing in the woods at night?” he asked suddenly, his voice washing over her. “In the middle of a storm?”
That voice. Her heart thudded at the sound. She’d thought she’d never hear it again.
“I was looking for someone.”
“Someone…?”
“Someone I love.”
The thunder quieted as it rolled into the distance and as the rain stopped, the silence grew heavy between them.
She decided to ask his question back to him. “What were you doing in the woods tonight?”
“I heard someone singing.”
Surprised, she glanced up to find him studying her.
His voice softened. “It was a sad song, like a farewell. It … woke me up.”
Emeline’s lips parted, remembering the king’s story.
Hawthorne looked around them. “Where are you taking me?”
Swallowing, she nodded towards the stone house up ahead. “Home.” It was no longer dark inside. Instead, the windows glowed warmly, lit from within.
Odd. Emeline had turned down all the lamps before she left earlier.
“Your home?” His teeth clattered loudly.
Emeline pulled him closer, shaking her head. “No. Yours.”
They were ten steps away from the door. Then seven. Then four.
His muscles tensed with uncertainty.
Three more steps.
With her cheek against his chest, she felt the strong thump of his heart through Pa’s slick jacket. Her hand reached for the knob. Turning it, she pushed the door open.
A fire already crackled in the hearth. Emeline searched for signs of Rooke or Sable, but no one was there. The house was empty.
She stepped inside.
Hawthorne halted in the doorframe, his body going rigid with doubt. When Emeline looked back, she saw the confusion in him.
He didn’t know this place. He didn’t want to come inside.
“It’s all right,” she said softly, moving towards the heat of the fire, trying to coax him to follow. If he did have hypothermia, she needed to get him warm.
He stepped back suddenly, out into the cold, wet night. “Are you sure this is my home?”
Seeing his fear, she returned to him. They stood face-to-face on the threshold, drenched and muddy. Hesitantly, she reached for him, and when he didn’t flinch away, she brushed the wet hair out of his eyes.
“Everything is going to be all right,” she promised.
His uncertain gaze held hers. “How can you know that?”
For a moment, the rain and the woods and the house ceased to exist. It was only Emeline and Hawthorne, standing in the doorway.
“Because,” she said softly. “I remember everything.”