Everything inside me yearns to crawl in next to him. We’ve never spent the night in the same bed. We slept in the same room when he was recovering from his injury, but he had the bed while I dozed on the couch. The only other time we spent the night together was in the cave where we finally gave in to our desires. In the days leading up to now, he stayed away from our bed, either working on repairing the palace or avoiding me.
I reach out to touch his cheek, the warmth of his skin kissing my fingers. There’s something about the touch that feels wrong, though, some tenuous barrier that keeps him from feeling real.
It’s because I’m dreaming.
That’s when I notice the violet haze that covers my vision. I’m only just now seeing it, but in the mysterious way of dreams, I know it was here all along. Even Aspen glows with a violet aura, one that pulses with every breath.
My heart sinks with disappointment. I’m about to pull my hand away when Aspen’s eyelids flutter open. With a start, his eyes lock on mine and his fingers curl around my wrist. My breath catches, remembering what happened last time he woke to me standing over him. Of course, that time had been real, not a figment of my imagination.
He pulls my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my wrist. I close my eyes and sink to the edge of the bed, sitting at his side. “You aren’t really here, are you?” he asks, voice sounding both close and far away at the same time.
“No,” I say, opening my eyes to find his face. “Neither are you.”
His lips pull into a crooked grin as his hand moves to my cheek. “I never knew I could dream something so beautiful.”
Heat stirs inside me as his eyes drink me in, but all potential desire is crushed by the logic that permeates my thoughts. Not even my dreams are a respite from the brutal realism I hold so dear when I’m awake. “This hurts too much,” I say, lip trembling. “By tomorrow, your new Chosen will arrive. You’ll see that carriage and you’ll have no idea whether I or they will emerge from it. I don’t even want to imagine what your reaction will be.”
His eyes widen, jaw clenching at my words, but he says nothing.
“I can’t even warn you. I can’t even say goodbye.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Perhaps that’s what this is. My mind’s way of letting me pretend I can.”
“Then pretend with me.” His words come out low, and I swear there’s a hint of a tremor to them. He beckons me forward. “Lay with me.”
My face crumples, and I fold myself into him, burrowing into his bare chest. He pulls the blanket over us, arms wrapping around me as I breathe in his rosemary and cinnamon scent. I’m surprised I can conjure the scent within this dream, yet the certainty that this is a dream remains. Aspen’s arms don’t feel as heavy as they should, the blankets not nearly as warm. Yet, I enjoy it all the same.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into my hair. “I should have been with you every night like this. I never should have let my pride keep us apart.”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” I say, the beating of his heart pulsing against my ear. “All of this still would have happened.”
“But we would have hadthis.”
“It only would have made things harder.”
“Perhaps it should have been harder.” His tone deepens. “Maybe I should have fought harder to keep you here.”
“I would have fought back even more.” We fall into silence, and I know that means the dream is coming to an end. With that knowledge, I cling tighter, willing this moment to remain frozen in time. My heart races as I wait for the dream to fizzle into nothing, for my body to jolt awake in Mr. Meeks’ guest room. But the dream remains, and all I can do is revel in the sound of Aspen’s heart, in the feel of his breath stirring my hair.
9
The dream is the first thing I remember when I wake. I feel hollow in its absence, wishing it had been real. I can hardly shake it, not even as Lorelei and I get dressed and prepare for our day. It isn’t until the two of us are in Mr. Meeks’ carriage that I finally manage to tuck the dream away. That’s when more pressing concerns flood my mind.
I’m about to see my mother. I’m about to see herin jail.
It’s a comfort that Mr. Meeks loaned his carriage and driver to me, allowing me and Lorelei privacy for our visit. The fewer witnesses to my anxious state the better. It’s still perplexing to consider everything that has happened, and I’m not sure what to expect from my conversation with my mother. At least I’ll know the truth once and for all—whether she truly hid my heritage or if the human council is as devious as Aspen suspects.
I’m shaking by the time the carriage comes to a stop outside the jail. The small justice building is in the village plaza on the south end of Etting’s street, several blocks from the apothecary. The morning is cool with a light drizzle of rain greeting us as Lorelei and I exit the carriage. The driver gives me a nod. “I’ll wait here for you, Miss Fairfield.”
“Thank you.” With my attention fixed on the building ahead, I hurry through the rain, forcing myself not to look around the plaza. I don’t want to see any familiar faces or curious stares. By now, I’m sure half the town knows everything that occurred last night.
Sheriff Bronson meets us by the back door to the jail, expression hard. He’s a rugged-looking man in his sixties with graying hair, long sideburns, and a frizzy mustache. His sheriff’s jacket looks a bit the worse for wear, his dress not nearly as refined as the mayor, Mr. Duveau, or even Mr. Meeks. I suppose such a gruff appearance comes with the job.
“Your mother is inside,” he says, opening the door. His gaze finds Lorelei for only a moment, but he doesn’t seem surprised. Good. Lorelei donned a glamour before we left, disguising herself as a human to prevent as much undue attention as possible. I can’t see the glamour myself, but at least it seems others can despite her fears that her magic wouldn’t be strong enough here to hold it. In addition to the glamour, she wears one of my most modest fae dresses I’d brought, one of pink chiffon with several layers to the skirt.
We follow Sheriff Bronson through the doorway. Inside, I find a small, dimly lit room with a bench near the door and cells lining the walls. There appear to be four cells total, each smaller than an average bedroom. Only one is occupied.
I run to the bars, finding my mother huddled on a narrow cot, a thick wool blanket over her shoulders. “Ma!”
Her eyes widen when she sees me, and she rises to her feet. She’s dressed in rough, gray homespun, skin pale, hair a tangle of copper waves. Gone are her colorful scarves, her whimsical shawls and jewelry. Gone is the brightness in her eyes and the color in her cheeks. “Evelyn, what are you doing here?”
