“Their son?”
“Ander is alive,” he told her.
She closed her eyes against what must be a disorienting feeling, suddenly having all these memories and, with it, all this grief. “He was such a good boy. Thoughtful and diligent and kind. I used to look at him and miss you, though. Even though you were a menace.”
She smiled at him through her tears, reaching forward to touch his face. “You were so naughty, always stealing from thekitchen and lying and playing tricks on us all. But so charming and clever.”
“That’s me,” Fear said dryly.
“Yes, it is.” When she stroked her thumb over his cheek once, Fear’s stunning golden eyes closed. He might have been a boy again. “So good in your own way.”
Fear gently took her hand from his face. The look on his face was the most unguarded thing I ever saw. He could not bear the contact anymore with his past, the connection with the needy little boy who had once flung himself into her arms. “I’m sorry, Maris.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Life is what it is.” She rose to her feet. “And I need Corbyn’s help with Tay.”
“Did I fail him? Do you think…?” My voice came out quiet. “Did I miss taking out part of the queen’s enchantment?”
“I think he is just changed,” Maris said as if she had been thinking about it for a long time. “He’s not enchanted anymore. Just…altered.”
“That’s worse.”
“Yes, it is. But I’m going to ask Corbyn to make sure he doesn’t leave the camp.” She looked grim. Because of Tay’s troubles or because she needed Corbyn’s help or both.
“Is it better?” I asked her. “Remembering him?”
She had always remembered Corbyn as a monster.
“I don’t know,” she said wearily. “It’s coming back to me in pieces. For so long, what I remembered was wrong. The truth feels like a dream I can’t quite remember clearly.”
I had more questions—she had been carrying me when Corbyn sent her away—but I let them go anyway.
She squared her shoulders and went to do what must be done, which must be a relief for her.
Thirty-Nine
Fear
Cara was worn thin by the time we made it into our tent.
“I should make an appearance at dinner, but I can bring food in for you,” I offered.
“Shouldn’t I make an appearance too?” she asked, and then she dropped any pretense that she could. She collapsed onto the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands.
“No one will misinterpret your rest as weakness.”
I doubted she would listen. She was so kind to everyone else and so cruel to herself. It was infuriating. “Everyone knows what you did today.”
She looked up at me. She looked more mortal today, as if Kami’s magic—which usually kept Cara in some nebulous in-between state—was failing her today; her hair was falling out of her bun, strands loose around her face. It was her eyes that gave her away, dark-shadowed and red-rimmed.
“What wereyoudoing today?” she demanded.
Today I had stood by her without an audience to see me play the caring husband. If I pretended not to understand her question, she’d see through me.
I decided to make her clarify anyway. I was not entirely merciful.
When I sat beside her, the bed creaked, reminding me of how close we had been the night before. I had felt all her stirrings. She had not slept well.
She had her elbows on her knees, her body leaning forward, and I mirrored her posture. “What do you mean?”
