Page 42 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
“Rule number five,” he murmured. “No touching.”
Hattie’s gaze sank to their joined hands. “When do the rules start, exactly?” she asked thickly.
“I suppose as soon as we’ve finished shaking on it,” he replied.
“Hm.” The left corner of her mouth pulled downward. It was an expression of resolve, but also something worse: Hattiedimmed. The change was minute, but he saw it. He hated it.
Noble thought again of her harrowing journey to this moment, guilt flooding him as he recalled all the ways he’d been cold to a woman who only ever deserved warmth. It might’ve been responsible of him to constantly push her away, but it was alsocruel.
She deserved a brief moment of comfort. Maybe they both did. Maybe—before the warmth between them slipped behind winter clouds once again—they could spare one Fates-damned minute tosimplybask.
When Hattie’s fingers stiffened in his grasp, about to pull free, Noble squeezed tighter—then tugged her directly into his arms, against his chest, a softoophescaping her lips as they collided in an embrace that was nine years in the making.
15
Hold On
Hattie
Enveloped in Noble’s smoky cedar scent—comforted but bemused by the unexpected contact—I was transported back to the very beginning.
It was snowing the day I saw him for the first time.
A flurry of small flakes was fluttering onto the grass of the inner bailey at Castle Wynhaim. The ancient willow in the center of the courtyard swayed its frosty boughs, glittering like the arms of a crystal chandelier. I leaned halfway out an open upstairs window of the keep, curiosity keeping my hands firmly planted on the stone sill; snowflakes blew inside on a frigid wind, dusting the shoulders of my dressing gown and the hallway carpet.
Down below, a team of chocolate- and chestnut-brown horses were trotting through the barbican gate into the barren yard, stark against the backdrop of accumulating white. They pulled a carriage that was not as ornate as our usual guests’, but still quite fine, with curtained windows and gold-painted trim. An army of guards and servants streamed out of the castle to greet the newcomers, their cloaks billowing behind them. A reedy male servant stepped out of the carriage first, followed by a huge bull of a man. He took one swiveling perusal of the yard, then turned, offering a hand to a woman, who climbed out next. The couple wore plain gray cloaks lined with fur, their style consistent with their carriage: well-made, but understated.
Releasing his wife’s hand, the patriarch of the family began gesturing, speaking—to his servant, to the staff, to the guards. Wynhaim Castle had been built beside a great river atop a high plateau; the back of the keep was shrugged up against the crest of a waterfall, and over the constant roar of whitewater, I heard nothing of the scene unfolding below.
Snowflakes were catching in my eyelashes, melting on my cheeks like cold kisses. I flicked my tongue out, tasting their mineral quality, their flavor reminding me of the spray that rose off the falls. My skin was beginning to chill, my dressing gown not enough to insulate me against the wintry air. I lifted my arms to the windowpane, about to slide it down, when one more figure emerged from the carriage.
A boy of about eleven, same as me.
He shared the warm brown skin and stern bone structure of his father, and the black wavy hair and keen watchfulness of his mother. While his parents continued to direct the staff, the boy surveyed the yard, eyes trailing over the marble statues, the empty fountains, and the magnificent weeping willow around which everything else in the bailey had been built.
Then his gaze found me.
He smiled, a slow reveal of teeth.
I lifted my hand to wave.
He waved back.
I opened my mouth to call down to him, to tell him towait one momentso I could descend the stairs and introduce myself properly—a new friend!—but I was cut off by footsteps in the hallway.
“Hattie, what are you doing? You’ll catch a chill.” Loreena, my governess, rushed over to the window and yanked it shut. Her lips curved into a grin that defied the stern set of her jaw and her perpetually shrewd gaze. “You’re not even dressed,” she tutted. “Come, let’s get you ready for breakfast. Perhaps some hot tea to chase away the chill?”
Without giving me time to protest, Loreena ushered me away from the window and the boy—but by then, my curiosity had already gotten the better of me.
It was not love at first sight—just the piqued interest of a sheltered noble girl who was mostly isolated from other children (at least, other children to whom she was not related). Love came later, like the slow growth of a tree, developing over countless meals, days spent frolicking innocently throughout the castle grounds, taking long walks along the river, and reading together in the library. Each thoughtful conversation, playful shove, fit of laughter, casual embrace—these made up the leaves, boughs, and sweet fruit of our friendship.
By the time I realized I wasin lovewith Noble, our roots were too strong to ignore. We already had inside jokes. I’d already learned his greatest fear (failure) and favorite type of pastry (chocolate); he’d already learned my favorite season (spring) and my most ticklish spot (neck). And I already knew what his skin felt like—holding my hand as he led me down the hall, the brush of his fingers against my knee to get my attention, his teasing elbow in my side. Back then, the meaninglessness of his touch was made all the more meaningful by how easily he gave it to me.
Then I ruined it.
“Hattie, please don’t,” Noble had said when I finally mustered up the courage to admit how I felt.
We were seventeen, standing on Fate’s Landing, the bridge that overlooked the three-hundred-foot drop of Wynhaim Falls.
