Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(10)

He should light a lamp. One sat at the ready by his elbow. But somehow he could not bear the notion of being alone with himself that night, and the dark kept his thoughts momentarily at bay.

He bowed his head and the worms in his belly writhed. “Why in Lumé’s name did I write that dragon-eaten letter?”

What was it Daylily had said to him those few short months ago when he, down on one knee, had asked the crucial question?

“I’ll marry you, Prince Foxbrush,” she’d said, “but only with the understanding that you will never love me.”

But she knew. Dragons blast it, the whole kingdom knew that he adored her! Had he not made a fool of himself during her previous wedding week last winter, when her then groom, Lionheart, had left her alone in the middle of the dance floor before the eyes of the whole court? And Foxbrush had stepped forward and taken her in his arms. Gallant Foxbrush, ready to save the day! Noble Foxbrush, eager to salvage his fair one’s honor!

Clumsy Foxbrush, who danced like a clockwork soldier, and within three turns had trod upon her dress once and her feet twice.

“Let me go, you dolt,” Daylily had hissed so that none but he would hear above the music. And she’d wrenched herself from his arms, and it was his turn to be left alone in the middle of the dance floor, while she made her way after Lionheart.

From that day on, he’d heard the young gallants of the court whisper behind his back: “Foxbrush Left Feet!” But really, Hymlumé love him, was it his fault that in all his academic pursuits, he’d never encountered a course on courtly dancing?

There was no one to blame but himself, however, for writing those letters.

In the dark, Foxbrush flipped a switch to open a “secret” compartment in his desk—which wasn’t so much “secret” anymore as “understood to be private.” A stack of letters emerged as the compartment slid open, letters tied up with a limp silk ribbon. Anyone coming upon them could see in a glance that they were love letters. Not everyone, however, would guess they’d all been written by Foxbrush himself. Written and never delivered.

Foxbrush pulled them out, several years’ worth of the most tender and romantic feelings he’d ever put to paper. Such as this one: And a union of our two houses would prove as profitable to the improvement of our estates as would the union of our hearts to the improvement of our lives.

Or this: When weighed upon the joint scales of reason and regard, the balance of my affections proves a sound measure upon which to make your judgment.

The idiotic yearnings of youthful fancy, perhaps, but truly, if rather haltingly, expressed. Only, thank the Lights Above, he’d never let one of these fall into the adored object’s hands!

Until today.

With a biting curse, Foxbrush fumbled for his matches, some notion of warming the room with a blaze of burned hopes and dreams brewing in his mind. He struck a light, held it up.

And he screamed, “Iubdan’s beard!”

Across his desk stood the hooded groundskeeper.

“Good evening, Foxbrush,” said he. “It’s been some time.” Then he put back his hood.

“Iubdan’s beard !” Foxbrush cried with redoubled vehemence.

It was Lionheart.





3


THE WOOD WAITED, as it always did.

It had no need to go hunting. In all the long existence of the Between, before and after the advent of Time, it had proven itself the most effective of predators, not by any great cunning or guile but simply by its patience. If it waited long enough, prey inevitably walked into its enfolding arms as into a lover’s embrace. And those whom the Wood embraced, it rarely let go.

For the Wood was full of things that kill: some that meant to, some that didn’t, though the latter were no less deadly.

Daylily, her underdress torn, her hair in disarray, her eyes wild in an otherwise calm face, slid the last few feet down the gorge trail and stood upon the edge of the Wilderlands. She knew what she did, or believed she knew. After all, had she not shut her mouth when Lionheart asked if anyone would defend Rose Red? Had she not shut her mouth and thereby pronounced the poor girl’s sentence as clearly as though she’d spoken it aloud?

And Rose Red had been banished to the Wilderlands. She had disappeared into its shadows even as Daylily, her skirts clutched in both fists, disappeared now, stepping out of the world she knew into a world of half-light remembered from poison-filled dreams.

The ground was soft beneath her feet. Leaves rustled against the hem of her gown. Silence closed in around her, reaching out to touch her face even as the tree limbs stretched down and caught gnarled fingers in her hair. She passed into the Wood Between, ready for any fate to greet her.

Any fate, that is, except the one that did.



Had Crown Prince Foxbrush been asked how his day might conceivably be made worse than it already was, he would not have been able to give an answer. How could it possibly be worse?

But this was only because he wouldn’t have considered the possibility of Lionheart returning.

The match he’d struck burned his fingertips, and he dropped it with a cry, plunging the room back into darkness. For the space it took him to light another and apply it to the nearest lamp, he could pretend that it was all an illusion brought on by fatigue, worry, and hunger. Surely, surely Lionheart could not—

Oh yes, he could.