The venom in her tone hardens something inside me. “No. That would undo every promise I’ve ever made. Every prayer I’ve ever said.”
“You know what?” She throws her hands into the air, shoving past me on her way to the door. “Fine. Do whatever you want. Just don’t come crying to me when you end up chained to a monster.”
She flings open the door and stomps away, her footsteps fading down the corridor. Evelyn and Carina stare at me, stricken.
“You’re…sure?” Evelyn whispers.
I hesitate, more moved by her concern than by Brynne’s attempts at brute force. “Well, not entirely,” I admit.
Evelyn holds my eyes for long moments before offering the scissors. “Will you consider it, at least? Please?”
My focus falls to the shears, to the gleam of pink twilight on cold metal. “Yes. But you should go. It’s almost time, and Father won’t like it if you’re late.”
Evelyn presses the scissors into my hand. “I’ll see you downstairs, then?”
The lump in my throat threatens to reappear. “Yes. Downstairs.”
After a brief squeeze of my shoulders, Evelyn steers Carina from theroom, leaving me alone with the shears, which drag at my grip like a ten-pound weight.
I stare at my reflection until the quiet grows suffocating. My wide-set hazel eyes peer back as I survey my modest dress, the fall of my hair. Loose brown curls flow past my shoulders to swish around my hips.
I could cut them, yes, but that would change me. And I don’t think I can bear to be anything other than what I see in the mirror: a future priestess who lives for Ishanna, who aspires to earn her Grace. Who understands that faith doesn’t actually mean anything if you only have it when it’s convenient.
My attention shifts to the crescent moon necklace at my throat. “You’ll protect me,” I tell it. “I know you will.”
The silence warms, turns silken, and it’s all the answer I need. With a small smile, I turn and make for the door, leaving the scissors behind on Evelyn’s vanity.
Chapter 3
Downstairs, I hurry through the marble corridors, which stretch wide and bare and empty. On any other night, bustling chatter would fill the halls, but tonight, everyone has gone to the throne room. They’ve gathered to watch the Claiming, and I’m…late.
My pace quickens. I can practically see my father’s cool-eyed disappointment, the divot between his graying brows. Not only have I spent half my life failing him, but now I’ve managed to arrive late for an event I’ve had twenty-eight years to prepare for.
Ishanna’s blood, what iswrongwith me?
A side door appears ahead, drawing my focus. If I duck through to the outside, I can cut across the garden and reenter the castle through the east wing, come at the throne room from that way. The shortcut will save me five minutes, at least.
An easy decision.
I burst into the balmy summer evening, my skirts billowing. The gardens gleam in the pastel twilight, but I don’t spare the manicured flowerbeds a glance. I rush between the boxwood hedges, my hems whipping against the trimmed leaves.
On the horizon, the last glimmer of sun narrows and vanishes, andwith its disappearance, a weight settles atop my shoulders. Time for the Claiming to officially?—
I stumble as the entire garden—the entireworld—shudders around me. By the time I regain my footing, the disturbance has passed, but…Ishanna’s blood, whatwasthat? I glance around for some kind of explanation, but the birds cease their chattering, plunging the gardens into stillness.
Anxious energy fizzes inside me. I try to placate it with a lungful of perfumed evening, but the fragrant sweetness offers no relief. My eyes drift to where darkness lurks in the distance. In the dip between two far-off mountains, shadows pool, cloaking the lands that lie beyond.
The Wildwood. The ominous, tangled gateway that guards Velindra, the kingdom of the fae.
Even from here, the forest’s shadows teem with menace. Withthreats. Dark energy crackles beneath those trees, and I have no doubt that whatever caused that anomaly just now, it had something to do with?—
A twig snaps behind me.
My spine stiffens, my thoughts bursting apart like popped soap bubbles. I start to turn, but rough hands grip me from behind—one at my waist, another at my neck. Whoever has snuck up on me is strong, because I’m locked in place, my stare aimed ahead.
“Don’t run,” a voice behind me growls. “Whatever you do, you’d best not run from me.”
I try to turn again, but the hand at my neck tightens like a collar, and I can’t catch so much as a glimpse. My entire body goes into revolt, my nerve endings screaming.
