Page 27 of Heart of the Summer Queen

I force myself to meet his eyes, to act as if everything is fine, even though it’s far from it.

All I want is to look away and bury my head in the book I was reading because maintaining this mask of neutrality is so draining. I remind myself of all the reasons why staying away from each other is for the best.

“I’m told you’ve spent the entire day here,” he says after a moment. I’m relieved when his eyes move from mine and scan across the books piled around me.

“I have.”

I brace, waiting for him to lecture me about not taking care of myself.

But none comes.

Did he really only come to find me in the library to ask if I’d been sitting here all day? Since he says nothing else, not even after several minutes pass, that seems to be the case.

“Maybe you can help me,” I say, partly to break the awful silence and partly out of curiosity. While it’s clear he can neither speak nor write a single word about his curse, I wonder whether he can pass me any books which might aid my search, even if indirectly.

“In what way?” he asks.

I frown, sitting back in my chair, and consider how to phrase my questions so his curse permits him to answer. “I know so little of your childhood and your life before you became the King of Avella,” I say. “Is there anything in here which might shed some light upon that part of your past?”

Though I’ve searched extensively, I’ve found no mention of Elaric prior to his reign as the Winter King. While a book about his life prior to ascending the throne may not reveal anything about his curse, it could help me to find a more direct lead.

He hesitates. Then, “I suppose there might be something.”

He paces over to the shelves and browses through them. As promising as his response seems, I do my best not to get my hopes up. He might not find what he’s looking for, and even if he does, there’s a chance it won’t further my search.

Elaric returns to my desk a few minutes later, holding an old book with a dusty burgundy leather cover. He sets it down before me.

The book is unremarkable, save for its fraying, loosening stitches. Carefully, I peel back the cover and inspect the first page. I take a while to make out the sloping scrawl as saying ‘Theron Tirling.’ If the rest proves this messy, reading it will take all night.

I glance back at him, curious as to the book’s significance.

“This is my father’s journal,” he says.

Whether it reveals much about his curse or not, the fact it belonged to his father piques my interest. Eagerly, I flick the page but my candle goes out.

We’re cast in darkness.

The moon is fuller than last night, so more light filters in through the window, but it’s still too dim to read. When my eyes adjust, I find my matches and relight my candle.

Except as soon as I try, the flame fizzles out.

I’ve had no problems with lighting matches in the library before, only inside the palace like on the night when I tried to melt down the doors to his forbidden chamber.

There’s just one explanation . . .

I look up at him and raise a brow.

Elaric’s jaw tightens. “I must go.”

Before I can say anything else, he turns and leaves.

eleven

Each lord of my council congratulates me with forced smiles, a few with thinly veiled pity in their eyes, and yet I have known no greater joy in this life. Perhaps I ought to be consumed by disappointment that Cerise shall never wear my crown, but from the very moment I first held her in my arms, I knew she was the most perfect thing God could bestow upon a man. It is said one cannot love any other more than their firstborn, and only now can I fathom the truth in those words. For even if Hester next bears me a boy, I fear there shall be no room left for him in my heart.

I arch a brow as I read the paragraph a second time, the amber glow of my candle dancing across the parchment. Given how stoic Elaric can be, it’s surprising to discover that Theron, his father, is much more sentimental. The journal entry is dated as 24th July 1012, three-hundred-and-forty-five years ago.

I read through the following pages. At first, my pace is slow as I struggle to interpret Theron’s handwriting, but then quickens as I grow accustomed to how he forms each letter. The journal’sentries are dated at various intervals. Sometimes Theron writes in it the following day, other times it’s weeks or even months later. What the king writes in his journal is so personal and transparent that I suspect he kept it very close to hand. While Theron has revealed nothing too damning in the portion I’ve read so far, his writing offers great insight to his deepest thoughts and fears, which others scheming for the throne might have sought to use to their advantage.

---