In the end I can’t reconcile my empathy with the rage and confusion swirling within. “So, you’ll do whatever he orders you to, if that means becoming king?” I finally ask.
“No!No,” Finn says quickly. “But I need to play the long game. If I were to end up on the throne, my rule would be dedicated to ending this war. I’d swear that on mylife, Lyria. But there’s no world in which I can do that alone. To broker peace, I need the support of the noble families, the VIA, our allies abroad, not tomentionmy brothers and cousins. I need people to believe that a different future is possible. I need toconvince them to believe inme. Because right now…nobody does.”
His voice trembles on those last words, which makes my chest ache like there’s too much emotion trapped inside it: mistrust and longing and shame, all mingled. I understand his single-minded devotion because I’ve lived it.
Who am I except my mother’s daughter? I never questioned the cage she trapped me in. Why would Finn question his?
“Why couldn’t you have told me all this sooner?” I ask. “Why not tell me who you really were at the cottage?”
He draws a deep breath. “If you’d known the truth, could you honestly tell me things would have been the same?”
I chew over my answer. “No,” I admit.
“No,” he repeats. “I didn’t think so. And…I wouldn’t have wanted anything to have gone differently, in terms of you and me.”
His words heat my cheeks. I know I should continue to press him, but I can’t help but smile a little as I say, “Except for the whole tying-you-up bit?”
“That was my favorite part, actually.”
I laugh and look out toward the city. My thoughts swim for a while in the soup of revelations I’m processing—all the ways my world has wobbled, tightened, and expanded. I’m highly aware of the distance between us, and that it’s our first time alone together, apart from the Ironwoods. Those stolen weeks feel like a lifetime ago.
“I told you my father has an outsize degree of influence over my life,” Finn continues. “I didn’t tell you about my family and allthisbecause…I don’t know. That time in the cottage, it felt special, like we were just on an island somewhere. Like none of the rest of it mattered.”
Something blooms in my chest.
“I didn’t just invite you here to be our apothecary,” Finn says, reaching for my hand again. “I invited you here because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
My stomach lurches. There it is—the option I’m not prepared for. The words I’ve beenachingto hear. Since Finn left the cottage, I’ve been internally at war, torn between my heart and the cooler rationale of my head.Am I delusional? Does he feel the same way?
Or am I just another toy to be discarded?
I’m steeling my courage to ask when suddenly I hear a distant crying. It’s high and reedy—almost catlike, or like a small child. “What is that?”
“What’s what?” Finn looks at me blankly, but I’m already clambering to my feet.
The noise emanates from the distant trees. It’s farther away than I thought, probably farther than Finn’s human ears can hear. I hurry toward it, peering into the darkness. There. Amid the ferns. It’s the size of a small dog, with dainty paws and a pointed muzzle. A fox, a very young male one. It has a large gash along its side, and its front paw is mangled.
I crouch, extending a hand. “You’re all right,” I whisper. The fox sniffs my fingertips and looks up at me, and my heart swells. “What happened?”
He looks pitifully out of place—a wild thing among the perfect manicured gardens, entirely alone. That is a feeling I am far too familiar with.
Tentatively, I stroke his head, and he leans in to the touch. Finn runs up behind me. “What happened?” His footsteps slow when he catches sight of the fox.
Gingerly, I scoop the creature into my arms. “He’s hurt. I need to help him.”
Finn’s eyes widen, and for a split second I think he might protest. But after a beat he nods. “My mom wouldn’t like it. But she doesn’t have to know. Should we take him to your room?”
He helps me smuggle the fox inside, reassuring me along the way.
“You’re sure he’ll be safe here?” I ask.
“Considering Damien hid a ten-foot python in his bathtub for years when he was a kid, a fox should be fine.”
I make a nest for my new guest out of cushions and blankets, and Finn dashes down to the kitchen for some food. While Finn’s gone, I slip the fox some of the nocturn to induce sleep. Then I use my Talent to heal the worst of his wounds. When I’m done, I bandage the fox’s side wound for show. I don’t want Finn asking questions. The front paw is an older injury, so I can’t mend it completely. It still twists at an unnatural angle—and always will—but the pain should be gone.
Finn is breathless when he returns. “How’s he doing?”
“Sleeping,” I say as he sets down some minced meat and bread in a saucer.
