With effort, I lift my head. My gaze lands on a stranger who sounds like Wren. This… This striking feral creature even resembles the man who stormed away from here three years ago. They have the same dark hair. Same height. Same sharp facial features. But that’s where the similarities end. This person is not the Wren I’ve known since I was twelve. This man has a savage and frightening edge. His hair falls to his shoulders in wild waves. His build, once lithe for hunting, is now muscular for fighting. He still carries his longbow and quiver, but he’s added a broadsword, and, although I can’t be sure from this distance, I think there is also a dagger at his hip.
He’s dressed head to foot in muted tones of browns and greens to blend with the background, his jerkin and breeches smeared with dirt and blood. Fresh blood. It’s on his face, in his hair.
Oh, God.
Has he killed someone?
Manysomeones?
Suddenly racked with violent tremors, I lick lips gone dry. “What do you want with me, Wren?”
“They’re dead,” he spits.
“Who is dead?”
“Everyone.” He shoves that stubborn fall of hair away from his scowling brow. “Leeds is gone. Destroyed. Because ofyou.”
“I…didn’t.” I step back, his accusation a physical blow. “Who would…? No. You’re wrong.”
No one but Sybil and Wren know I’m here. Sybil takes great pains to make sure of this. Wren is mistaken.Please say he is mistaken.
Wren grabs his jerkin and tugs it away from his body to angle it, giving me a better view of the blood. “Exactly. You did nothing. My mother’s fucking throat was slit. Half the village still burns. All because King John wants your fuckinggift.”
My hand, on instinct, flies to my plaited hair. I never thought it was possible to be numb, cold, hot, afraid, angry, and anguished simultaneously. Yet each of those sensations collides inside of me. “That’s imposs—”
“Impossible?” Wren spits out the word, his shout overlapping my hoarse denial. “My mother’s blood isn’t enough to convince you?” He steps forward. “This will happen one of two ways, Rapunzel. Either you tell me how to get in this fucking tower, or I’ll find a way myself.” His hand moves to his sword. “But I swear on God, you won’t like the outcome if you don’t tell me how to breach this fortress.”
I’ll bet everything, down to my last strand of hair, I won’t like the outcome of either choice.
I collapse with a pathetic whimper. It whispers from my lips as I recall whenever Wren shared stories of Mary Kincaid, how she sang to him when he was a child. Of the treats she baked for him. How she scolded him when he arrived home muddy and soiled her freshly washed floors. Most of all, how she loved him. I ached to know a love like that for myself. Sybil tried but quickly learned she was better at protecting me than maternal affection. Although she’s never been cruel, Sybil is my guardian, nothing more and nothing less.
Nothing like what Mary was to Wren.
And now Mary Kincaid is gone.
Because of me.
The bread I ate for breakfast threatens to slide up my throat on a river of bile. Somehow, I swallow it, regain my footing, and reemerge in the window. “I’m sorry.”
I’m not even sure my apology carries the distance to him until Wren snarls, “No, Rapunzel.” He shakes his head, the movement slow. Methodical. “You don’t know what sorry is yet. But I promise you will.”
The threat in Wren’s tone is a blast of winter air on this summer day. Every part of me shakes, and when I open my mouth to speak, I pray I’m doing the right thing for the kingdom and myself. If King John is slaughtering my fellow Rygardians, it will do more harm than good for me to remain here.
“You won’t hurt me.” I say this as more of a statement than a question. The truth is, I don’t know what Wren will do once the space between us is gone.
Again, he shakes his head. “Do as you’re told and I won’t.”
His vow wraps around my throat, squeezing the breath out of me. But what motivates me into action are the innocent lives taken on my behalf.
Strangers I spent my life living in solitude to protect.
“There is a hidden access point around the back.”
He points his sword at me, the blade catching the sparkle of the midday sun. “I’ve searched around this tower and never saw a door.”
Hence, hidden. But I don’t dare say this aloud and push his already fraught temper. “Trust me, Wren, it’s there.”
“Trust you? Never again. Trust is a commodity I can ill afford with you.” Wren sheaths his weapon. “If there’s no door, I’ll forget my plans and let my arrow find your heart. Do we have an understanding, Rapunzel?”
