Page 49 of Cursed Crowns

Wren folded her arms. “You’ll never find—”

He slipped his hand into her left pocket, curling his fingers aroundthe jar. “Well,” he breathed. “This feels familiar.”

Wren pressed her hand against his, trapping it in her pocket. “Don’t.”

His gaze flicked to her eyes, then her lips.

But Wren had caught his moment of weakness. She rose to her tiptoes, brushing her nose against his.

Tor’s free hand found hers. He gently pushed her away. “This is not a game we can play in Gevra.”

Wren dropped her hand. “When was it ever a game?”

“You tell me.” He held her gaze as he removed the jar of salt from her clothes. “I never did learn the rules.”

Wren watched him pocket the salt and wanted to slap him for it. “I suppose they’re your rules now.”

They were interrupted by a low growl. Then the sound of approaching footsteps. Wren reeled backward, flattening herself against the stone. Tor stepped into the alcove, covering his body with hers, as he sealed them in. The soldier drew closer. Wren closed her eyes and laid her head against Tor’s chest listening to the drumbeat of his heart. He rested his chin on her, the ghost of his lips brushing the crown of her head.

They stayed like that until the footsteps faded. Wren could have lingered far longer, listening to the steady rise and fall of Tor’s breath, but he pulled back from her and the truce was broken. “Go to bed, Wren. For both our sakes.”

The fight seeped out of Wren, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over her as she stepped out of the alcove. She frowned as she looked left. Then right. “I’ve lost my way.”

Tor sighed. “I know.”

He escorted her back to the fourth floor, where they found Ulrichand his wolf still slumbering outside her door. Wren deftly stepped over them, then paused in the doorway. “Tor,” she said, holding on to the frame. “When will he make his decision?”

Tor gestured past her to the confines of her opulent bedroom. “Can’t you see? He’s already made his decision.” He looked back at her, a terrible shadow moving in his eyes. “When he comes to you and asks for your help, I hope for your sake—and his—that you refuse him.”

“Why?” said Wren warily.

Tor’s face shuttered as he pulled the door shut. “Just trust me,” he said through the wood. “If you can do nothing else, do that.”

The key turned in the lock, and his footsteps faded, leaving Wren pondering his final words. Her satchel had been left on the chair by her dresser. She rifled through it, searching for her sand. It was gone, every last morsel of earth taken from her by Captain Tor Iversen. The rest of her stuff remained, even that ridiculous bejeweled mirror. Wren pulled it out, catching a glimpse of her haggard reflection.

“Some queen you are,” she muttered, as she set it down on the dresser. Not for the first time that day, she thought of Rose across the Sunless Sea, and wondered how her sister had taken the news of her desertion. Would she send a troop of soldiers to fetch Wren or trust her sister to work out this new wrinkle in their destiny? Wren hoped Rose would keep her focus on Barron, and the trouble brewing closer to home.

She crawled into bed, trying to ignore the prickle of guilt at abandoning her sister. In the midnight darkness, with the winter wind howling at the window, Wren felt more foolish than ever. Tor was right. The second she had offered herself to Alarik Felsing in the throne room, his eyes had lit up, like the stars of Polaris. This fancy bedroomwasn’t a gesture of goodwill, it was a message. He was telling her to get comfortable.

Alarik was going to keep Wren now that he had her. But what was he planning to do with Banba? The uncertainty around the old witch’s fate rocked Wren to sleep. It followed her deep into her nightmares, where she screamed for her grandmother, until a bitter frost crawled over her, freezing her, bone by bone, breath by breath.

18

Rose

Rose stood high in the west tower of Anadawn, staring at a pool of Glenna’s blood. The seer was dead, but there were faces peering up at her from the crimson puddle.No, not faces. A portrait. Rose picked it up, cleaning away the blood with her sleeve. An oil painting of her ancestors Ortha and Oonagh stared back at her, their emerald gazes so like her own. Only Oonagh looked angry. Vengeful.

Rose traced her finger along the portrait, causing a crack against the glass. “We won’t be like you,”she heard herself say. “Wren and I will be different.”

A floorboard creaked behind her. She turned to find her sister standing in the darkness. The walls groaned as they crumbled around them, the tower cracking open like an egg. The sky stretched over them in a mass of dark thunderclouds. A drop of rain landed on Wren’s cheek, turning to blood.

“Wren?” said Rose uncertainly. “Are you well?”

Wren lunged, shoving Rose from the tower and sending her plummeting toward the ground.

Rose screamed as she fell, the world spinning faster and faster, as the courtyard rose to meet her. Blackness exploded in her mind, andfrom deep within it came the urgent whisper of a familiar voice.Break the ice to free the curse...

“Wakey, wakey, Queenie.”

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