Page 20 of Twin Crowns

Rose’s scowl deepened. “Perhaps I’ll feed you that same line when you find yourself in the Anadawn dungeons.”

“Well, as we’re not currently in Anadawn, I don’t need to worry about that, do I?” He clicked his teeth, and Storm began to amble away from the caves. He looked over his shoulder, his brown eyes molten in the setting sun. “Last chance to join me.”

Rose knew she would be safer with the bandit than on her own in the desert. And surely they would reach some sign of civilization soon. Once they did, she would leap off the horse and scream for help, and then,oh then, Shen Lo would be sorry.

She started after him. “Iwillreturn to my throne.Andmy beloved.”

“Not tonight, Princess,” he said, the horse slowing.

But soon, thought Rose as she clambered on.

“You know,” said Shen, once Storm began to pick up the pace, “you’re more spirited than I thought you’d be. Especially for a princess.”

Rose glanced at him over her shoulder. “How many princesses do you know?”

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into her. It made her heart flutter in a way that was not entirely unpleasant. “You’re braver than I thought, too. Or at least you’re trying to be.” His voice was close to her ear, his breath warm on her skin. Rose swallowed. “I can’t help but admire that.”

“Oh, to be admired by a shameless kidnapping bandit,” she said dryly, and when he laughed again, it sent another burst of warmth through her that had nothing to do with the heat. “Then again, I suppose you’re not as awful as I expected.”

“Does that mean you find me... tolerable?”

Rose could hear the smirk in his voice. “I’d like you a lot more if you took me home,” she huffed.

“Since we’ve already established why I can’t do that, how about I promise to make the rest of our journey astolerableas possible?” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “You never know, Princess, you might enjoy yourself.”

Beyond the caves, the setting sun painted the desert in a blaze of colors, the shifting sands shimmering like an ocean of violet and gold. It was not a soft beauty like the manicured gardens of Anadawn. Or even a wild beauty like the woods beyond. It was a sharp, fierce beauty that pierced Rose’s heart and reminded her of how big the island of Eana truly was, and of how little of it she had seen.

“I most certainly will not,” she said, grateful he couldn’t see the smile that belied her words.

9

Wren

Wren stared out the window in the east tower, trying to control her anger. Just beyond the golden gates, on the top of a humpback hill, sat the Protector’s Vault—an extravagant marble building domed in glass. It was supposed to be a place of worship, a safe haven from the witchcraft that the people of Eana swore had plagued them for years. Tonight, there was a man hanging from it.

Wren couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was a carpenter from Eshlinn, according to Agnes. The maidservant had insisted on delivering her dinner to her rooms upon hearing about Wren’s feigned headache. She’d laid out a veritable feast in the side-chamber that connected to Rose’s bedroom, where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves clustered around a small reading desk. There was roast duck drizzled with almond-and-pomegranate sauce, buttered greens, and roast potatoes, followed by a freshly baked apple crumble.

Wren hadn’t been able to stomach a single mouthful of it. She was too fixated on the dead carpenter, who Agnes said had been in the employ of the palace until the Kingsbreath’s breakfast chair collapsed underneath him three days ago. When the guards found strangemarkings underneath the seat cushion, the carpenter was dragged in for an interrogation.

“And was he a witch?” Wren had asked, barely clinging to her composure.

Agnes only sighed.“You know what the Kingsbreath says, love. When it comes to the witches, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”Wren must have done a poor job of hiding her dismay, because Agnes began to rub her back in warm circles.“Best not to think too much about it, if you can help it. It’ll only give you nightmares.”

The second the old woman had left the room, Wren threw her goblet against the bookshelf.

This whole bloody kingdom is a nightmare, she wanted to scream.We’re all living in one!She stalked back into the bedroom and upended Rose’s vanity, toppling her perfumes across the floor. She threw her hairbrush at the unlucky palace guard who’d ducked his head in to see what was going on, and then she flung every single gaudy ring Rose owned across the room, watching them plink off the wall one by one.

Only then was she able to sit down and force herself to eat. She had to keep her strength up for the weeks ahead and whatever nasty surprises Anadawn still had in store for her. If Willem Rathborne was going to murder witches right in front of her, she would have a much harder time pretending to be Princess Rose.

Despite telling Chapman that she urgently wished to speak to Rathborne, the Kingsbreath was still too busy to see her. Wren was used to waiting, but that didn’t mean she would be idle. Tonight, rather than pacing a hole in the carpet, she decided to find her way to Rathborne’s chamber to see what he was up to. She possessed some knowledge ofthe layout of Anadawn, but now that she was here, the endless hallways and winding turrets all looked the same.

She donned one of Rose’s elegant nightgowns for her midnight mission. It was long and crimson, the silk silent as she moved. A bracelet taken from her sister’s bottomless jewelry drawer anchored her dagger beneath her sleeve—just in case—while a demure smile and a quick sleeping enchantment took care of the guards in her tower.

Wren’s footsteps echoed along the stone floor, sconce-light casting her in shadow and flame. She took the stairs to the third floor and headed in the general direction of the king’s bedchamber, the room where her father, King Keir Valhart, had been found poisoned almost eighteen years ago. The room Willem Rathborne had since claimed for his own.

Portraits of past kings and queens looked down on her from the walls—the descendants of the Great Protector unfurling in an endless line of furrowed brows and gilded crowns. There were no memories of the witch queens and kings who had ruled Eana long before them, though Wren was hardly surprised. History belonged to the victors, and so, it seemed, did the winding halls of Anadawn Palace.

When she became Queen, all of that would change. Portraits of Eana, the first witch, and of all those who ruled after her would hang proudly from these walls. Magic would be celebrated, not feared, and there would be a role—and a refuge—at Anadawn for every witch who came here in search of one.

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