Page 63 of Forest of Dreams and Whispers
“I’d rather not,” he said, with the soft smile she despised so much. “Goodnight, fair nemesis. I’ll see you anon.”
On Juliana’s next day off, she readied herself bright and early and handed off Hawthorn to the care of her relief: a stiff, tight-lipped fae knight named Algernon. He stood stoically by the door, as silent as stone, his face almost waxy with indifference.
“Are you all right, Algernon? Oddly quiet today.”
“A headache,” he said stiffly, barely moving his mouth. “Nothing that will prevent me from performing my duties.”
She’d meant it as a joke, but Algernon being fae, she decided not to question it. She’d never known him for his humour anyway.
The gardens were, of course, as fine as ever, the weather mild throughout. It was never hard to find a pleasant plot; the only times when all the seasons were inclimate was when Maytree was having a particularly bad day. When she lost Aspen, Acanthia saw a month of storms, the weather moving from torrential to cloudy depending on the wave of grief.
She remembered Hawthorn watching through the windows as a fog shifted into a gale. “I used to envy that power,” he had said. “It would be easier than speaking.”
“But would you want the witnesses to it?” She had known that she would not, that she was never more glad of her mortal tongue than when someone asked the dreaded question,are you all right?
“No,” Hawthorn had said. “I don’t much care for people knowing how I feel.”
A cold wind shifted through the trees now, as if it too could see inside her memories and shivered at the recollection.
One of these days, you will be able to actually enjoy a day off.
But it was not this day, with thoughts of the dear Prince Prickle still needling through her mind.
Time did pass more slowly without him.
She wandered further into Autumn. It was the quietest of the grounds, the courtiers usually preferring the warm parts that Spring and Summer offered. But Juliana liked the colours here, even if the red of some of the leaves briefly reminded her of Lucinda’s hair.
She’s gone. He doesn’t want her.
Why does that even matter?
There was a rustle in the bushes. Juliana startled, pulling out her sword. But it was only a wealth of vines, trembling under the trees like a frightened shadow.
Juliana paused. “Out a little far, aren’t you?”
She extended a hand like one might towards a wounded animal, but the vines shrank away from her, quick as lightning bolts.
Odd. They’d never shrunk from her before.
She moved towards them as they receded, back through the gardens, into the wilder parts beneath the redwood trees—
To a person slumped beneath the roots of one of them, clumsily hidden with leaves and bracken.
No, not a person, abody.
It was as still as a statue and pale as ice, a coldness emanating from the limbs even before she reached out to touch them. There was no stiffness, not yet.
They hadn’t been dead long.
Death was unusual in Faerie. Juliana had never discovered a body before—not one she hadn’t murdered herself. She was unused to the quietness of death.
Her eyes trailed up the body, searching for clues, hoping to find some old, gnarled mortal who had chosen this spot as his final resting place. But the hands were smooth and unlined, and as she pulled apart the bracken, a sticky, red wound blossomed at the chest.
Murder.
She tore through the leaves obscuring his face, and her heart stiffened to lead.
Algernon.
