Page 33 of Twin Crowns

“What will he do when he finds out about you?” Shen interrupted her thoughts, pulling her back to the oasis. “Will he turn on you, too?”

Rose tried to swallow the new flicker of fear inside her. “I suppose when you take me back, we’ll find out.”

He glanced at the dawning sky. “We should get going.”

Rose looked up at him. “You are the thing I am meant to fear the most.”

“Youare the thing you fear the most.” His face softened. “And are you really so scary?”

Under the paling moon, everything seemed different. But Eana,blessed Eana, was still the same. “I am Princess Rose Valhart, heir to the throne of Eana,” she said, more to herself than to Shen. And no matter what had happened in the desert, or inside her, that wouldn’t change.

Shen extended his hand to her. “What if you’re more than that?”

Rose stilled. All her life, she had been the princess, an orphan raised to be Queen. To be good and gentle and gracious, to marry and beget heirs that would strengthen her kingdom and its alliances. She had never imagined she could be more than that... that anyone would everwanther to be more than that.

An eternity seemed to pass, Rose staring at Shen’s hand as if she might find a map of her future in it. She thought of Anadawn melting into the distance behind them, of Willem pacing his room in worry.

She thought of the moment when she pressed her fingers against Shen’s thigh and sewed his skin back together. Seamless. As easy as breathing. It hadn’t felt vile, or wrong. It had felt, well... magical. And even though she knew she shouldn’t, a small part of her had enjoyed the feeling.

Rose slipped her hand into Shen’s. “What if I don’t like what I find?”

“What if you do, Princess?”

Rose squeezed her eyes shut. She was afraid of that even more.

Shen was silent as they rode, his eyes glazed in thought. Rose kept turning her hands over, looking for telltale signs, something she could have missed during all those years in her tower, waiting for her life to begin. They felt like the hands of a stranger now.

Witch, witch, witch.

The word tumbled around in her brain.

You are the thing that killed your mother.

You are the thing that killed your father.

As morning dawned and the sun peered over the horizon, the terrain began to change. The dunes were finally flattening out. The sand had stopped shifting; Storm’s hooves thumped along the packed earth. In the distance, at the edge of the desert, an enormous tree climbed toward the sky. It was the biggest tree Rose had ever seen, with gnarled and twisting branches that reached out in every direction, as though to gather up as much space as possible. It creaked as it swayed, a distant wind fluttering its leaves. It seemed as though it was overlooking the entire desert.

Overlooking them.

The back of her neck began to prickle. She didn’t know where they were or how long they had been traveling, but she knew with a chilling certainty that she did not want to go any closer to that tree. Or to the strange shadows rising beyond it.

“You’re taking me to the witches.” An old familiar fear awoke inside Rose. They were close enough now to see that the mighty tree marked the beginning of a dark forest. She could almost sense the witches skulking in the shadows, waiting for her. “They’re in that wood up there, aren’t they?”

Shen cleared the cobwebs from his throat. “That’s the Weeping Forest, Princess. And there are no living witches to be found there.”

Rose loosed a sigh of relief.

“It’s the dead ones who will want to make your acquaintance.”

13

Wren

Hours after her disastrous piano performance, Wren sent word to Chapman that she would be spending the evening reading about the inspiring life of Thormund Valhart, Eana’s longest-serving king. Once she was left to her own devices in the library, she donned her cloak and slipped out of a side door into the courtyard. Thunder rolled across the plains of Eshlinn and the rain was still bucketing down with a vengeance. The sky was starless, the moon skulking behind a thicket of clouds. Save for the occasional fork of lightning and a lone silver-breasted starcrest circling overhead, the palace gardens languished in darkness.

Wren dug her fingers into the soil beneath the rosebushes, but the earth was too sodden and compacted. She turned on the flowers, grabbing fistfuls of petals instead, stuffing them hastily into her drawstring pouch. Rain dripped off the tip of her nose and the thorns pricked her fingers, but she didn’t care. The roses wouldn’t be as strong as the Ortha sand, which bore the footprints of the witches, their sweat and songs and tears, but earth was earth, and since she needed it for her enchantments, Wren couldn’t afford to be picky. The flowers had grown rooted in Eana soil, so for now, their petals would have to do.

After she stripped the red roses, Wren turned on the yellow bushes. They were taller, winding up to the sky as if they were trying to escape Anadawn. She rose to her tiptoes, reaching for another fistful—

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