Page 42 of Burning Crowns

He turned and walked to the end of the row, where a dappled silver mare peered out of her stall, as if she were listening in on their conversation. He laid his hand against her muzzle. ‘It’s this one.’

Wren gaped at him. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

‘Because she’s my favourite.’

Wren laughed, the weight on her heart easing. Of course he was right. And really, she didn’t know why she was surprised. He was a wrangler, after all. He had a way of reading animals, of sensing their loyalties and personalities.

‘You have the same spirit.’

‘Is that so?’ said Wren, drifting closer.

He nodded. ‘Curious. Spirited … A little wild.’

‘I think you mean reckless.’

‘Only for the right reasons. Or the right person.’ He turned back to her, a question in his eyes. Wren knew that question. It had stolen her breath more than once. She knew her answer, too. But there were things still unsaid between them.She owed him a confession, and she knew it might change everything. At the reminder of her blizzard kiss with Alarik, something inside her wilted.

Tor came towards her. ‘What is it?’

She shook her head, trying to find the right words. ‘It’s … There’s still so much to say, and I don’t know where to begin.’

Tor lowered himself on to a bale of hay. ‘Let’s start small, then,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘Tell me your horse’s name?’

Wren was flooded with a curious rush of relief. She could start small, like this. Just talk, the two them, like old times. The words would build, and eventually she would come to the truth … to her guilt. ‘Didn’t you ask her?’

‘Contrary to popular belief, I can’t speak to animals.’

‘What?’ She feigned a gasp. ‘How disappointing.’

‘I know,’ he said, leaning his head back. ‘I can only sense the core of their being and divine their entire life’s purpose, including but not limited to their greatest desires, their deepest fears …’

Wren stared at him.

He broke into laughter, the sound filling the stables like a song.

She grinned. ‘I always forget you have a sense of humour.’

‘You have no idea how wounding that is, Wren.’

‘Sorry.’ She perched on the bale beside him. ‘Back to more serious matters. My horse’s name is Breeze.’

‘Breeze,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Interesting choice.’

‘I don’t know what it is,’ she confided, ‘but when I’m near her, when it’s just she and I trekking through the woods on a quiet morning in Eshlinn, the storm inside me – my grief and my fear, and that insidious little voice that tells me I’m not good enough to be queen,that I’m not good enough to be a witch – all of it just … fritters away. And it feels as if I’m back home, standing on the shores of Ortha on a misty spring morning, watching the waves kiss my feet and feeling the sea breeze on my cheeks. And suddenly the world is small again and so am I. All is well. All is peaceful.’ She looked at her hands, her voice quiet. ‘She gives that peace to me. So, I called her Breeze.’

Tor was silent, then. Wren was too embarrassed to look at him. When she finally raised her gaze, he was staring at her with such fierceness, her heart began to thunder. ‘You are more than good enough,’ he said in a low voice. Angry, but not at her. At the voice in her head. ‘For this life. For this destiny.’

She shook her head. ‘You’re just saying that.’

‘You of all people should know I don’t speak unless there is something worth saying.’

Wren smiled. ‘I suppose you are more of a strong, silent type.’

‘Only because I like to hear you speak, Wren.’

‘I can’t imagine why.’

‘Can’t you?’ he said, leaning into her. His words were a whisper between them, his lips so close Wren couldn’t help herself. She raised her chin, brushing her nose against his.

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