Mother speaks before he can. “We don’t sing the birthday song, Mr. Blackwood, so I do hope you scrub that notion from your mind.” Then leaning in toward me, she says, “I hope you don’t mind, lovey. We discarded that human tradition long ago.”
I’m about to tell her I haven’t a clue what the birthday song is, but something nags at the back of my mind. I feel like I may have heard about the tradition recently. Why can’t I remember?
“Very well, Mr. Blackwood,” Father says with a nod. “We appreciate how you’ve aided our daughter’s return. You may say a few words if you desire.”
Thorne gives Father a gracious bow, then positions himself beside my chair, between me and Father. I can’t bring myself to look at him, but from the corner of my eye, I see him place his hand on my chair’s backrest. More than that, I can feel his presence. His nearness. A shudder runs down my spine and my breaths grow shallow.
“I don’t know much about Princess Rosaline,” he says, his deep voice carrying through the now-silent dining hall. Even Cousin Remus has gone quiet, his piano keys still. Thorne’s voice shifts slightly, taking on the sensual lilt I’ve heard a few times now. “But I do know one thing. She loves to dance.”
My heart leaps into my throat. I whirl around in my seat to face him.
“Princess,” he says, his voice a chilling caress, “it’s time to remember the dance we had this morning.”
“Mr. Blackwood!” Mother exclaims. “What are you on about?”
Father rises from his seat, clawed fingers curled into fists. His lips peel back from his serrated teeth. “Step away from my daughter’s chair.”
Thorne does as told, holding up his hands and taking two steps back. He holds my father’s gaze without wavering, and his grin has turned smug. Knowing. Calculating.
All I can do is stare.
And remember.
The sight of Thorne Blackwood cutting in on my daydream dance.
Curling horns protruding from the sides of his head.
An expanse of leathery wings behind him.
But his strange appearance isn’t what stands out in the memories that bloom in my mind, vibrant in hue, crisp in sound. It’s his words.
Do you believe in fate, Briony Rose?
I’m starting to suspect curses are a lot like fate.
Tremors rack my body as everything returns to me, including the last words he said to me.
Forget we had this dance.
My heart hammers in my ears, in my chest, as nausea writhes in my gut. I half tumble out of my chair, catching myself on the cake cart. Mother stands beside me, a protective hand on my arm, but I can tell she too is trembling.
Slowly, Thorne shifts his gaze from my father to me. A corner of his lips curls into a cold, cruel smirk. “Briony, dear,” he says, “pick up the knife.”
My eyes slide down to the cart before me. The knife, now clean of cake, rests just inches from where I brace myself. Some mindless urge forces my fingers to flinch. Then, against every ounce of my will, my hand closes around the knife handle.
My mother releases my arm and leaps back. “Wh—what are you doing, Rosaline?”
Terror splinters my heart as I stare down at the blade, at my hand acting of its own volition.
“Rosaline.” Father’s voice is strangled. I force my eyes away from the knife to find his face stricken with pain. Betrayal. Fear.
Those emotions aren’t directed at Thorne.
They’re directed at me.
At the knife in my hand.
“Hold the knife to your father’s throat,” Thorne says.
