Page 49 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

“Will you come to Ivyhill tomorrow?” I said quietly, watching him, noticing things I never had: the scar above his left eyebrow, the slightly crooked line of his nose. “You don’t have to tell me where your greenways are. I don’t care. I’m glad you have them, really. Just come, please. If you want. If you can. Talan is there, and we should talk, all of us. We need to visit the queen as soon as possible.”

I wanted to say so much more than that—it felt silly to pretend I didn’t—but I couldn’t find the courage. It had taken every scrap of bravery I possessed to ask for those last kisses. Instead I mustered up a small smile, hoping he could see in it at least some of what I was feeling—gratitude, and need, and disappointment, and a hard knotof fear, and a secret, wild hope. If he came to Ivyhill, what would happen then? What would it feel like the next time we saw each other?

He searched my face for a moment, then smiled and kissed my forehead. “Of course,” he said, his lips against my skin, and I closed my eyes and held on to him for another moment. When he released me, I bit back a cry of protest. Part of me wanted to run away from him and never return; part of me wanted to beg him to take me to the nearest bed so we could try again, and properly.

Instead I took a step back from him, my blood roaring, our fingers still loosely joined. As overwhelmed as I felt, that was the most I could manage. There were so many things to say, and I couldn’t untangle any of them. The memory of how it had felt when he held me—that twinge of familiarity, like the faint echo of an old, beloved song—had returned and now sat uncomfortably in my chest. I tried to ignore it; I had more than enough to think about without chasing every stray puzzled thought that flew into my head.

I gave him a small smile. “Tomorrow?” I said quietly.

“Tomorrow,” he replied. Then he kissed my hand and turned away, and I hurried into the woods, where the damp air cooled my cheeks and the quiet was a welcome balm to my bewildered, aching heart.

Chapter 11

Ryder appeared at Ivyhill’s front doors at seven o’ clock the next morning, just as I stepped out of them for my daily walk across the grounds. I opened the door, and there he was, frozen, his hand raised to knock. We looked at each other for a long moment, during which I could do very little except stare at him: his crisp black jacket and trousers, the cloth bag slung across his back, his freshly trimmed beard, his dark hair falling to his shoulders in neat waves. And his blue eyes, bright stars improbably shining in the morning light. Heat rose in me like the morning sun. Was it desire? Embarrassment? Nerves? Truly, I couldn’t tell the difference and wasn’t sure I wanted to.

I had been staring at him for far too long.

“You can come with me,” I said briskly, stepping past him, my face flushed, “or you can sit alone in the house until Gemma and Talan wake up, though gods know when that will be.”

Ryder dropped his bag inside the doors. “Clothes,” he said simply when I raised an eyebrow. “I can leave them there, can’t I?”

“Yes, though they might end up in a guest room or get thrown out.”

He shrugged, gave a little grunt. “Then I’ll buy more.”

The carelessness of this remark nettled me, though I easily couldhave done the same—lost a bag of clothes, bought new ones to replace them. I tried not to think of the ravaged village of Devenmere, of how many clothes the Bask family might have given to other victims of the Mist, while I lived my life at Ivyhill, blissfully unaware and obsessed with my own small problems.

I shook myself, trying to focus my scattered thoughts and forget the sound of Ryder’s grunt. What a bear he was. I couldn’t believe I had kissed him only the day before.

“Fine,” I said. And then again, sharply, “Fine,” as if trying to convince myself that this was ordinary and good, that I was entirely unbothered by the presence of Ryder Bask. I started storming away.

He followed me easily. “Where are we going?”

“I walk the grounds every morning to ensure everything’s in order,” I replied.

He grunted again in agreeable assent. “I do the same.”

“Well done, you. Would you like some sort of prize?”

“Not particularly. Though a cup of strong, hot coffee wouldn’t go unappreciated.”

“You’ll get your coffee when I do, when the morning’s work is done.”

“Seems fair.”

The complete ease with which he accepted my irritation was in itself supremely irritating. I walked faster, fists clenched, as if it were possible to propel myself through the air by punching it.

“You’re angry,” he observed after a moment. “I’m sorry I interrupted your morning routine.” He stopped walking. “I’ll go back to the house and wait.”

“Oh gods, pleasedon’t,” I said over my shoulder. “Then I’ll just be walking around thinking about how you’re sitting on the steps waiting for me like a great black dog. Keep walking.”

He caught up with me in a few long strides. “Youareangry though.”

“I’m not angry, I’m just…” I blew out a sharp breath, searching for words that wouldn’t come. “I suppose I am angry. But I don’t want to think about why I am, and I don’t want you to apologize for anything, because you didn’t do anything worth apologizing for. Just…thank you for coming, as we agreed. And let’s keep walking. All right?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod. “All right. But if there’s anything—”

“There’s not.”

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