time, and waited for the tears that would crumple her face painfully in defiance of her stiff flesh. They never came. Perhaps she had no more tears left to cry for the boy prince.
Outside, the winds lashed against each other, east blaming west for the trap they’d met in the valley. It did not matter, she wanted to tell them. Once something entered this valley, it would never leave. The mountains, once safe friends, had revealed themselves as jailers. The wind, the snow, the light, her despair, all would die imprisoned at Hazelhurn.
Lifting the edge of the cloth that held off the night air, she slipped her hand outside, against the winter-cold stone. Wilhelm rode through that biting cold, to help the man who had done nothing as they had faced grave danger. The son of the man who had destroyed their happiness, stolen their youth. What did he see that she did not? Politics? Politics were a poor salve for a wounded heart.
When she pulled her hand back, flecks of white fluff lay against her palm. It snowed in the valley. She hoped that wherever Wilhelm lay tonight, he was warm and safe.
“Be with him, Jacob,” she implored the deceased twin, conjuring his face in her mind. “Protect him.”
Chapter Five
The mornings were always the worst, Philipe found. After a night alone with his thoughts and irrational fears, he always woke to a new and prickly dawn, uncertain of what he might say or do that would unintentionally wound Johanna. This day was no different, as he dressed and washed for the day. The stubble on his cheeks had become more pronounced, almost beard-like. He wasn’t sure he liked that. Beards were for old men. He wasn’t an old man. He was a young, dashing prince.
A young, dashing prince who likely couldn’t charm a mirror out of his hostess. With every passing day, Johanna grew angrier with him, though he hadn’t imagined himself capable of doing anything to deepen her seemingly bottomless well of hatred for him. Still, it was worth trying. “You don’t by chance have a mirror, do you?”
“What would I want with a mirror?” she asked, never looking up from her sewing.
He took a patience-restoring breath. “I have want of one. I’d like to scrape off some of these whiskers.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t have at least one with you in your saddle bags,” she commented tartly. But she said no more.
He sat on the bench and rolled his shoulder, biting back a pained sound. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he expected sympathy. Something wasn’t right with the wound, though, a pulsing, insistent flame burned deep in it. She’d dressed and bathed the wound the night before, and she’d remarked on how well it had looked. More to the point, she’d said, “Looks like you’ll be gone from us in a few days.”
Though he’d let that pass without comment at the time, he could no longer stand her sharp replies and stiff posture. “I won’t leave you alone, you know.”
Her needle hovered above the fabric, but still she did not look up. With a breath, she resumed her stitching. “You left me alone before, easily enough. We’ve established that.”
“We have.” He had no desire to undergo the same torturous conversation again. “This is different.”
“I see no difference, for me. At the beginning, we lost two, sometimes three survivors a year, to death or to the lure of an easier life under some fatter lord. I will survive without my brother, as I survived with him.” Her bored affectation was that, and no more. A mask that no more tricked him into believing she would be fine on her own than it tricked him into believing a common peasant was a dragon.
He would let her have her pride, for now. “If you need anything, you know you may always turn to me.”
“I did not, but now I do.” She made a derisive little snort of laughter. “Very generous of you to offer when you’re on the run from the crown.”
From the window, he saw the valley spread
Outside, the winds lashed against each other, east blaming west for the trap they’d met in the valley. It did not matter, she wanted to tell them. Once something entered this valley, it would never leave. The mountains, once safe friends, had revealed themselves as jailers. The wind, the snow, the light, her despair, all would die imprisoned at Hazelhurn.
Lifting the edge of the cloth that held off the night air, she slipped her hand outside, against the winter-cold stone. Wilhelm rode through that biting cold, to help the man who had done nothing as they had faced grave danger. The son of the man who had destroyed their happiness, stolen their youth. What did he see that she did not? Politics? Politics were a poor salve for a wounded heart.
When she pulled her hand back, flecks of white fluff lay against her palm. It snowed in the valley. She hoped that wherever Wilhelm lay tonight, he was warm and safe.
“Be with him, Jacob,” she implored the deceased twin, conjuring his face in her mind. “Protect him.”
Chapter Five
The mornings were always the worst, Philipe found. After a night alone with his thoughts and irrational fears, he always woke to a new and prickly dawn, uncertain of what he might say or do that would unintentionally wound Johanna. This day was no different, as he dressed and washed for the day. The stubble on his cheeks had become more pronounced, almost beard-like. He wasn’t sure he liked that. Beards were for old men. He wasn’t an old man. He was a young, dashing prince.
A young, dashing prince who likely couldn’t charm a mirror out of his hostess. With every passing day, Johanna grew angrier with him, though he hadn’t imagined himself capable of doing anything to deepen her seemingly bottomless well of hatred for him. Still, it was worth trying. “You don’t by chance have a mirror, do you?”
“What would I want with a mirror?” she asked, never looking up from her sewing.
He took a patience-restoring breath. “I have want of one. I’d like to scrape off some of these whiskers.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t have at least one with you in your saddle bags,” she commented tartly. But she said no more.
He sat on the bench and rolled his shoulder, biting back a pained sound. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he expected sympathy. Something wasn’t right with the wound, though, a pulsing, insistent flame burned deep in it. She’d dressed and bathed the wound the night before, and she’d remarked on how well it had looked. More to the point, she’d said, “Looks like you’ll be gone from us in a few days.”
Though he’d let that pass without comment at the time, he could no longer stand her sharp replies and stiff posture. “I won’t leave you alone, you know.”
Her needle hovered above the fabric, but still she did not look up. With a breath, she resumed her stitching. “You left me alone before, easily enough. We’ve established that.”
“We have.” He had no desire to undergo the same torturous conversation again. “This is different.”
“I see no difference, for me. At the beginning, we lost two, sometimes three survivors a year, to death or to the lure of an easier life under some fatter lord. I will survive without my brother, as I survived with him.” Her bored affectation was that, and no more. A mask that no more tricked him into believing she would be fine on her own than it tricked him into believing a common peasant was a dragon.
He would let her have her pride, for now. “If you need anything, you know you may always turn to me.”
“I did not, but now I do.” She made a derisive little snort of laughter. “Very generous of you to offer when you’re on the run from the crown.”
From the window, he saw the valley spread
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