Page 35 of Burning Crowns

Wren watched Tor’s boots in her periphery, moving closer. He crouched down beside her, letting his arm brush against hers as he scratched under Elske’s ears.‘I think she’s been missing you.’

Wren looked up at him. ‘What makes you so sure?’

Tor held her gaze. ‘I know the feeling.’

‘Please do not touch the artwork!’ snapped Rose from halfway across the room. ‘It is irreplaceable. My ancestor Thormund Valhart painted that landscape.’

‘Artistic talent clearly does not run in your family,’ said Alarik, tracing the gilt frame. ‘What are these supposed to be?Deer?The colour palette on those trees is all wrong.’

‘I suppose you’d rather it was a big, bloody battle scene on some kind of glacier,’ said Rose, sourly.

‘Well, that would be an improvement.’

‘So would your silence. How about we all stay quiet until Thea arrives?’

Wren giggled into Elske’s fur. ‘He’s going to get himself thrown out of Anadawn if he’s not careful.’

‘This is the most fun he’s had in months,’ said Tor.

‘Me, too,’ said Wren. ‘Nobody here dares to boss Rose around. This is thoroughly entertaining.’

Alarik sauntered over to the dais and sat in Rose’s throne. At her look of utter annoyance, he flashed her a wolfish grin. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

She folded her arms but said nothing.

Alarik squirmed in her seat. ‘It’s not even comfortable.’

‘Shall I get Cam to bring up a big block of ice for you to perch on instead?’ Rose offered.

‘That depends. Will your ancestor burst out of it again?’

Rose rolled her eyes. ‘Stars save us. I feel as if I’m in a nursery.’

The bickering ceased when Thea arrived. She bustled through the door, her frown deepening as she surveyed the scene before her.The king of Gevra lounging on the throne of Eana under Rose’s admonishing glare, while Wren crouched at the other end of the room with his Captain of the Guard, laughing like a pair of guilty children.

‘What exactly is going on in here?’ said Thea.

Wren stood and went to her, like a prisoner approaching the gallows. She rolled up her sleeve and told Thea everything. About the spell she and Alarik had cast all those months ago in Gevra; about the scar that had appeared on her wrist shortly afterwards. The same one that he bore. She spoke of her harrowing nightmares, how Oonagh’s laugh often rang in her ears, how Wren had begun to see Alarik in her dreams, often doubled over in the same pain.

Thea listened in grave silence, before summoning Alarik. He went to her, willingly, revealing the matching scar on his wrist.

She brushed her thumb over it. ‘Goodness,’ she muttered.

‘Can you heal it?’ he asked, anxiously.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, sounding unsure. She jerked her chin up, then, shooing the others from the room. ‘Leave us.’

‘I’d rather stay,’ said Rose. ‘I want to learn how to heal this kind of ailment. And also … I don’t trust Alarik.’

Thea shook her head. ‘The king’s privacy is as important as any other’s, love.’

‘More important, actually,’ said Alarik.

Wren rolled her eyes. ‘Come on,’ she said, tugging Rose away. Tor fell into step with her while Elske padded behind them. They closed the door to the throne room and waited on the other side of it.

‘This is ridiculous,’ fumed Rose, as she paced the corridor. ‘To be kicked out of my own throne room! By a foreign king!’

‘It’s better this way,’ said Wren, quietly. ‘For everyone.’

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