AMBROSE
Ambrose hesitated at the threshold, trapped between the dictates of courtly etiquette, which bade him stand still and be courteous, and the fierce desire to gather her in his arms. Imelda was backlit by the sun, rendering her face inscrutable in the morning light.
“Imelda?”
She raised her head. Emboldened, he continued.
“The witch has returned for the potion and to give us our rewards.”
“Rewards,” Imelda echoed dully.
The words tumbled out of him. “Imelda, this past week, I thought perhaps we…we might start over. The witch even said she could bring us back to Love’s Keep, and I thought, given all that’s changed between us, we—”
“I’m not going back.”
That tide of joy that had held him close this morning receded, and Ambrose felt the eternal winter chill of the town creeping into his bones. His ears felt hot, and he took a step forward. Imelda looked up at him. There was no softness in her golden eyes. Those lips he’d kissed over and over were still swollen, but pressed tight.
“I’ve only wanted freedom, Ambrose.”
“What makes you think you wouldn’t be free with me? You know me; I would never expect you to—”
“I know what I want,” Imelda said coldly. “And it isn’t you.”
Ambrose felt something inside him shrinking fast. He had been so wrong. Sofoolishlywrong. He turned, a heavy weight settling on his chest.
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Wait!”
For a wild moment, his heart threatened to burst. He wanted to be proven wrong so badly, but the moment he turned, he caught something bristled and rough in his arms. The horse cloak shivered.
“You almost forgot that.”
He fastened the cloak around his shoulders, forcing himself to look at her one last time. The moment he crossed the winter bridge, the witch’s deal would go into effect. He would forget all about this quest and the year and a day he’d spent as her husband. He would have what he wanted: place, power, position.
But no Imelda.
And so, knowing that he would only hold this image in his heart for the next hour, Ambrose memorized his wife. He memorized the length of her lashes, the amber sheen of her eyes, and the feral twists of her hair. He memorized the slope of her neck and the way she rubbed the knuckle of her thumb when she was thinking. He memorized how she had laughed at him and drawn him outside himself. After all he’d memorized, Ambrose turned on his heel and walked out the door, determined to forget.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Imelda said sadly.
Ambrose laughed, but it was a hollow thing. “The irony is that I already did.”
Chapter 19
IMELDA
Imelda knew there was no freedom in love.
But there was no freedom in heartache either.
She sank to the floor, shaking violently. Barely more than a week had passed, and she finally had what she wanted. No one to answer to, no place to return to, nothing but the world stretched out before her.
The moment Ambrose left, Imelda shuddered. It was as if he’d taken all the warmth in the room with him. The armoire door was still open, revealing a corner of the snow-white box holding the crystal shoes. That one sight told her the witch queen was right…but if that were so, how come she didn’t feel victorious? How come all she could see was the giddy smile on his face when he opened the door, the way he’d seemed to fight himself to stay still rather than go to her? How could that be the reaction of a man who would pin her down and drain her of freedom?
But the shoes didn’t lie.
And all Imelda could do was congratulate herself for being proven right all along.
