blood through her veins, and beneath her the dense, solid earth. She rolled over onto her back and looked up through the branches of the tree, the new leaves a dark pattern against the black night sky. She wondered if Anya would be awake stil , at her daughter’s house in Rook Hil . She wondered if Anya would send her back to her stepmother. With that thought she woke up completely, the memory of the last several months flooding back into her with depressing efficiency. She sat up slowly and brushed the dirt from her hair.
Opposite her, a man was sitting on a rock. A thril of fear coursed through her body, for there was something odd about him. First of al , there had never been a rock there before, and second, the man did not look exactly human either. He was dressed like a man, but a very exotic one. He wore white breeches and boots and a white shirt with white lace at the throat, and the fabric of his clothes gleamed as if there were 64
MALINDA LO
light trapped within its threads. And then there was his face, which on first glance was just like a man’s face, except that his skin was as white as his clothes, and his cheekbones were sharp as blades. Though his hair was pale as snow, he did not look old; he looked, in fact, like he had no age at al . His eyes glowed unnatural y blue, and when he opened his mouth to speak, she saw his skin sliding over the bones of his skul .
“What are you seeking?” he said, and his voice was silky and cold. Though they were separated by several feet, she was disconcerted by the intensity of his gaze; she felt as if he could pul her open from afar.
She answered, “I came to see my mother.”
His eyes moved to the gravestone and then back to her face.
An expression of some sort passed over his features, but she did not recognize it. He said, “Come closer.”
She was compel ed to get up; her muscles would not obey her own commands; and when she was standing before him she trembled from fear. She wanted to look away, but she could not turn her eyes away from his. They were cool, measuring, as faceted as finely cut jewels; they traveled over her face methodical y, cataloguing her eyelashes, her nose, her mouth, her chin. He reached out and stroked her hair, and she could feel an icy chil emanating from his hand. She wondered if his touch would spread a frost over her, snowflakes blooming over her skin like a dress of winter. When he took her hand in his and ran his thumb down the center of her palm, the blood in her veins seemed to freeze. The pain of it freed her voice from her throat, and she managed to ask, “Are you the one who sent me back that night?”
65
Ash
He looked back at her face, and she swal owed. For a moment he did not speak, and then he said, “There are many of us.”
“Who are you?” she asked, her heart thudding in her chest.
“You know,” he said, “who we are.”
She felt like a fool, but she pressed on. “I wish to see my mother,” she said, and her voice shook.
“Your mother is dead,” he said.
“Can you not bring her back?” she asked desperately.
He let go of her hand and warmth rushed back into her fingers, making them ache. “You dare to ask for such a great gift,” he said, and there was a note of amusement in his voice.
“Please,” she begged.
But he said coldly, “No.”
Her stomach fel , and she whispered, “Are you going to kil me?”
At first she thought that he might strike her down where she stood, for a look of ravenous hunger came over him, as if he could not wait to spil her blood. But as her heart hammered in her throat and cold sweat dampened her skin, he seemed to change his mind, and the expression on his angular face smoothed out until he was as unreadable as before. He stood up, towering over her, and said, “You must go back the way you came. You took an enchanted path, and you cannot remain here.”
“Go back?” she repeated, and she was flooded with disappointment. “Don’t make me go
Opposite her, a man was sitting on a rock. A thril of fear coursed through her body, for there was something odd about him. First of al , there had never been a rock there before, and second, the man did not look exactly human either. He was dressed like a man, but a very exotic one. He wore white breeches and boots and a white shirt with white lace at the throat, and the fabric of his clothes gleamed as if there were 64
MALINDA LO
light trapped within its threads. And then there was his face, which on first glance was just like a man’s face, except that his skin was as white as his clothes, and his cheekbones were sharp as blades. Though his hair was pale as snow, he did not look old; he looked, in fact, like he had no age at al . His eyes glowed unnatural y blue, and when he opened his mouth to speak, she saw his skin sliding over the bones of his skul .
“What are you seeking?” he said, and his voice was silky and cold. Though they were separated by several feet, she was disconcerted by the intensity of his gaze; she felt as if he could pul her open from afar.
She answered, “I came to see my mother.”
His eyes moved to the gravestone and then back to her face.
An expression of some sort passed over his features, but she did not recognize it. He said, “Come closer.”
She was compel ed to get up; her muscles would not obey her own commands; and when she was standing before him she trembled from fear. She wanted to look away, but she could not turn her eyes away from his. They were cool, measuring, as faceted as finely cut jewels; they traveled over her face methodical y, cataloguing her eyelashes, her nose, her mouth, her chin. He reached out and stroked her hair, and she could feel an icy chil emanating from his hand. She wondered if his touch would spread a frost over her, snowflakes blooming over her skin like a dress of winter. When he took her hand in his and ran his thumb down the center of her palm, the blood in her veins seemed to freeze. The pain of it freed her voice from her throat, and she managed to ask, “Are you the one who sent me back that night?”
65
Ash
He looked back at her face, and she swal owed. For a moment he did not speak, and then he said, “There are many of us.”
“Who are you?” she asked, her heart thudding in her chest.
“You know,” he said, “who we are.”
She felt like a fool, but she pressed on. “I wish to see my mother,” she said, and her voice shook.
“Your mother is dead,” he said.
“Can you not bring her back?” she asked desperately.
He let go of her hand and warmth rushed back into her fingers, making them ache. “You dare to ask for such a great gift,” he said, and there was a note of amusement in his voice.
“Please,” she begged.
But he said coldly, “No.”
Her stomach fel , and she whispered, “Are you going to kil me?”
At first she thought that he might strike her down where she stood, for a look of ravenous hunger came over him, as if he could not wait to spil her blood. But as her heart hammered in her throat and cold sweat dampened her skin, he seemed to change his mind, and the expression on his angular face smoothed out until he was as unreadable as before. He stood up, towering over her, and said, “You must go back the way you came. You took an enchanted path, and you cannot remain here.”
“Go back?” she repeated, and she was flooded with disappointment. “Don’t make me go
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