Page 27 of Twin Crowns

“Liar! Take that back!” Panic clawed up her throat, choking her. “I’m not any kind of witch! I’m not a witch at all!”

A witch, a witch, a witch.

Shen only stared at her.

“It couldn’t have been me! It’s not possible!” Rose’s fear of the witches burned through her body, even as she remembered the tingling in her fingers, the fierce way she had wanted, almostwilled, the wound to heal....

She blew out a steadied breath. No, she was not a witch at all. It was Valhart blood that ran in her veins. Blood blessed by the Great Protector.

Rosewas blessed by the Protector.

“I’m not a witch,” she repeated sensibly. “I wouldknowif I were a witch.” She stared down at her traitorous fingers. She was still light-headed. It was the hot water. And maybe the sight of the blood. “Youare the witch.”

Shen shrugged. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

Rose began to tremble. Even as she’d thrown the accusation out, shehadn’t expected he’d admit to it so plainly.

“But I’m not the only witch in this pool. And I’m definitely not a healer,” he went on. “I didn’t thinkI’dbe the one to tell you, but you, Rose of Eana, are most certainly a witch.” He ran a finger along his thigh, tracing the faint pink scar. “And an impressive one by the looks of it.”

Rose promptly fainted.

11

Wren

Prince Ansel stood by the window in the drawing room, gazing out at the world. Wren studied the profile of her sister’s fiancé and cursed Willem Rathborne in her mind. After sending two more notes marked for his urgent attention, she was still waiting for him to show his face. If the Kingsbreath continued to avoid her, she wouldn’t be able to wriggle out of this nauseating engagement and carry on with her plan.

The sky was gray and bloated, casting a dreary mist about the palace, but Ansel’s mood was unnervingly bright. “There’s something so enchanting about the sound of rain. It reminds me of the pitter-patter of tiny feet.”

Wren pressed her forehead against the glass and tried to think happy princess thoughts.

It was late spring—the days were supposed to be getting warmer, not wetter. But the thunderstorm had turned the palace into a prison, and the hours were crawling by. She had spent the morning pretending to practice her sewing in her bedroom, before stepping out for a brisk walk in the courtyard with Chapman, who nearly chattered her ear off. After that, it was a lunch of warm soup and crusty bread rolls, followedby an hour of supervised study in the library, where, much to Wren’s dismay, most of the books on offer were dense historical tomes about governance in Eana.

It seemed her sister had spent every mind-numbing moment of her day preparing to rule, but Wren had no interest in the last thousand years of Valhart history. It was the time before that—the time of the witches—that would inform her queendom. She would oversee a court of them—enchanters, seers, warriors, healers, and tempests all working in harmony together—and Eshlinn would be a place full of magic once more. Banba would help her see to that.

Instead of having a picnic in the woods, Wren and Prince Ansel were cooped up inside. Tor was standing sentry by the door, his wolf snoozing at his feet. Wren had caught his eye once already, and had experienced such a dangerous flare of heat in her cheeks, she had to look away. Their midnight encounter on the banks of the Silvertongue felt like an illicit secret, and though she knew she shouldn’t enjoy it, it made Wren feel a bit giddy inside.

“And of course the rain makes a nice change from all the snow in Gevra,” Ansel went on thoughtfully. “It’s so silent when it falls. Sometimes the world can feel too quiet there.... It can make one feel quite isolated.”

Wren glanced sidelong at the prince. “Are you often by yourself, Prince Ansel?”

“I’m sure I spend too much time with my own thoughts.” Ansel smiled sheepishly. “Alarik is often busy with military matters. Even when we were children, he spent much of his time practicing swordplay or wrestling one of the family’s wolves. And while my sister, Anika, hasher charms, she’s too much of a spitfire to ever sit still for too long.” Wren thanked the stars she was dealing with the mildest Gevran royal. Mercifully, Ansel didn’t seem the type to spontaneously wrestle a wolf.

“I suppose it’s been worse for you,” the prince went on. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to grow up without a family.” He shook his head, strands of golden hair flopping into his eyes. “But of course, you have the Kingsbreath. And your Celeste.”

Wren tried not to flinch at the mention of Rose’s best friend. She had managed to avoid her once already, but she was running out of excuses. “I’m lucky to have Celeste,” she said, ignoring the part about Rathborne. “She has been like a sister to me.”

Certainly, a far better one than Wren.

“In your letters, you said you were looking for something more.Someonemore.” Ansel bit his lip, his blue eyes full of longing. “I confess I’ve been feeling the same way for some time now. As though my life has been...”

“Unbearably tedious?” Wren couldn’t help herself. “Monotonously soul-destroying?”

“Stagnant,” said Ansel. A pause, and then, “Lonely.”

Wren turned back to the storm. So, Rose had found a suitor who pined for the same thing she did—a lasting human connection, someone to belong to. Was that enough for her sister? The barest sliver of common ground upon which she planned to build an entirely new life? The thought stirred a deep sadness in Wren. In Ortha, she had never felt alone. The witches were like one big family to her. And of course, she had Banba and Thea, and Shen, who would gladly cut off his own arm if she needed it.

But Rose had grown up in a world of stone and ceremony, stifled by routine and constant surveillance, with only one true friend to look out for her.

---