Page 92 of Forest of Dreams and Whispers

Drunk on its heady summer wine,

Faerie grasped her in its snare

The girl no more than a fearful hare—

A maiden came to Faerie, long, long ago.

Where she’s buried—no one knows.”

“I thought the Queen had banned such melancholy,” Dillon remarked.

“I think they’re faeries and will soon forget that they were ever sad in a heartbeat.”

“Most of them,” he said, his eyes glancing towards Hawthorn’s throne.

Juliana did not want to think about why his eyes lingered there. “What’s your role tomorrow?” she asked, tugging his attention away.

“Guarding the main gate. I expect there will be quite the show.”

Juliana’s stomach churned with nerves.No, no, don’t think about that.

“Dillon—” she started, wondering what she was going to say. Take care? Goodbye? Come upstairs with me?

The latter had its plus points…

“Would you like to—”

“If you’re asking if I’d like to come upstairs with you, then the answer is yes,” he said. “But before I accept, I think you should ask yourself… who do youreallywant to spend tonight with?”

Alia’s song had changed now, a soft, slow ballad full of longing, the kind that wriggled into your bones.

Who do I want to spend the night with?

Juliana’s gaze fell towards Hawthorn.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

Dillon kissed her forehead. “Don’t be,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

He was probably lying, but she chose to believe he wasn’t.

Hawthorn had disappeared by the time she looked up, the side passage door still open. She glanced at the guard on duty, who nodded, and silently slipped after him.

When she arrived at his room, she found him standing at the window, gazing out over the starlit gardens. A velvet pouch rested on the table in front of him, and he was fiddling with the golden drawstrings.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Hawthorn jumped, as if surprised to see her there. He recovered quickly, smoothing down his clothes. “Your payment,” he said, “for services rendered in the past three years. Money, jewellery, a few trinkets.”

She came towards him, taking the bag from the table. It was incredibly heavy.

Three years ago, she would have counted it.

Now, she didn’t want it.

“Shouldn’t you be out getting incredibly drunk and piling up your room with lovers?” she teased, putting the pouch back down. “All being well, you’ll be basically engaged by tomorrow. Best make the most of it.”

“Perhaps I ought to be,” he admitted, voice low and quiet, “and yet I find I have not the heart for it.” He slid into the seat beside the table, folding his long legs. “What of you, Jules? What will you be doing tomorrow?”

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