Fearing I had already revealed too much, I changed the subject. “You truly are not afraid of me? That I am a Twilight?”
“Should I be?” Suspicion clouded his eyes.
I almost smiled, but the weight in my chest was too heavy. “I can walk dreams,” I said, quieter now. “Convince the body. Control the mind. My gift can show someone what they long for, what they fear. What they hide. It can also conjure images of falsehoods and fantasy. It is extremely dangerous. You would be right to fear me.”
He stiffened. I felt the shape of the thought before he spoke it aloud.
“I have not used it on you,” I added in haste. “I would never.”
He offered no immediate answer. Mav stared at me with that unreadable, measuring expression of his, as if weighing what it meant to ride beside someone who could unmake him in his sleep.
Finally, he said, “Good. Because if half the stories are true, princess…you’re a walking declaration of war.”
“Still not a princess,” I insisted. “It feels like an intrusion.” My hands gripped the reins in a feeble attempt to steady myself. “Peeling someone open and rifling through everything that makes them…them.”
“So, you don’t use it?”
“Not unless I must.”
Another pause. The tether thrummed with an emotion I could not place—akin to wrapping oneself in a sun-warmedblanket. The gentle surety of it frightened and surprised me in equal measure.
I did not voice the thought that followed, though it came clear as the cloudless sky.
Do you dream of me?
For a breath, I could not determine whether the question had arisen from my own mind or brushed against me down the tether, unspoken and shared between us. The distinction hardly mattered. I was not sure what I would do with the answer.
The trees thinned. Rooftops peered through the foliage, leaning forward to overhear travelers’ secrets. Sunlight spilled over Mav’s shoulder, catching on his collar and the fine sheen at his nape.
“While I am sure your friend is wonderful, I doubt Thistle will be able to help,” I murmured.
“Oh? Why? Too complex for a Hedge?”
“No.” I drew a slow breath. “Only that, as far as I know, there is only one thing that can break the spell.”
He scoffed. “What, true love?”
A jest, tossed like a coin meant to roll harmlessly away.
Laughter eluded me. There was nothing humorous about my circumstances.
His head turned fully at my silence. “Wait. You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
He choked. “You’re telling me this spell—centuries old, stitched into the bones of time by a vengeful prince—has a fairytale failsafe?”
“Preposterous, is it not?”
“Preposterous?” His tone was dry. “It’s cruel. What sort of spell works like that?”
“The sort designed to strip a person of all dignity.”
“And what, you simply fall in love?”
“It must be mutual and spoken aloud,” I said. “Within the fourteen days. Or the spell resets.”
“Saints preserve us,” he muttered.
