Page 142 of Forest of Dreams and Whispers

“What of me?”

“Did you honestly care for none of them? Were you not growingcomplacentthere too?”

To this, Markham had no response, and only silence whispered between the two of them.

“It wasn’t just me you were trying to toughen, then.” She paused, gathering another onslaught of thoughts.“Making me Hawthorn’s guard. That was all part of your bargain with Ladrien, wasn’t it?”

“Ladrien had heard of the attempts on the prince’s life. He needed him alive. I couldn’t watch the boy myself, not with my commitments to him, but you… you were the next best thing. I knew I could trust you to guard him.”

“Did you never once think what that would do to me—”

“Of course I did!” Markham snapped. “You don’t think I wondered if I’d gone too far, every time I saw you together? But you promised me you hated him, that it was all just duty—”

“You’re a fool!” she screamed.And so am I, in so many ways.

Markham sighed. “Would it make a difference if I was sorry?”

Maybe. Yes. No. This is still all your fault, and I am what I am because of what you have made me.

Did she even like this version of herself, cold and tempered? Would she like the other version of herself better?

No way of knowing. She had to live with the person she’d become—or grow into a better version of it.

“Come away with me,” Markham suggested, when she said nothing. “We can go to the mortal world, far away from all this. We can be a family, Juliana. That path isn’t lost to us.”

Juliana shook her head. She wasn’t sure that path had ever been open to her. “I am what you made me,” she whispered, though the wind stole half her words. “I break or bend for no one, and certainly not you.”

Markham bowed his head, and turned to leave.

“I hate you,” she hissed to the back of his head.

Markham paused. “But you don’t, do you?” he said. “And that, I bet, hurts worst of all.”

Thesummercourtwasruled over by two ladies, Yasha and Lahoime. Yasha was tall and muscular, as lithe and strong as a panther. Her dark skin was unblemished, her hair orange, and her arms adorned with black runic markings.

Her wife was small and round, with tawny skin, golden eyes, and blue hair like the sea. She was as pretty and curved as a pearl.

The couple had a daughter, Serena, one of the few royal children not educated at court. From what Hawthorn could tell, some form of magic had been used to conceive her, and even though he suspected a man might have been involved at some point, she carried characteristics of both her female parents.

She was as speckled as a fawn, doe-eyed, petite, with hair like the sunset over water. He knew the girl must be at least fifteen, but her big eyes and tiny stature gave her the impression of a child.

She looked far too young to be contemplating marriage, and far too young to have the fate of a kingdom resting on her shoulders.

“Prince Hawthorn,” she said, dipping into a bow, blue skirts swishing beneath her, “I am glad to see you’ve recovered. I was worried about you.”

He paused, surprised at the concern, examining the words for another meaning. “I was worriedforyou“ was a more Faerie turn-of-phrase. Worriedforgave more leeway.

“I appreciate your concern. I hope you were not too troubled to be removed from your home whilst I was quarantined.”

“Oh no,” she shook her head. “Not at all. My other lodgings were delightful. And my mothers worry too much.”

“On the contrary,” said Yasha, with a cool glare, “we worry precisely the right amount.”

Hawthorn glanced at his own mother. He’d barely spoken to her since his recovery. Her glance was cool too, but with frosty indifference.

He returned to Serena. She seemed nice. He wasn’t used to that.

She joined him at the table, and they tried to remember when they had met before, not to much avail. They spoke of the weather and courtly politics, predictions of what might occur if Yasha drank any more wine, and who would win in a fight between her and Miriam.

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