Charles is good.
Charles is just.
Charles loves me.
These things are true.
And yet…I shake myself free of those thoughts, nothing good will come of me getting into my own head again. And today, I actually have plans.
* * *
They call it Greenwake—the day the town celebrates the return of spring.
Aileen insists it would be improper for me to leave the palace, especially without protection. I insist it is spring, and that I will suffocate if I remain behind stone walls another hour longer. We argue quietly, then compromise: two guards, instructed not to look as though they belong to the palace. It is the sort of arrangement that satisfies no one and only delights the devil.
One of the guards is Rowan.
Aileen presents him with careful neutrality, as though I might not already recognize the red hair, the easy confidence with which he stands. He is accompanied by another guard I do not know, quieter and more watchful.
“Rowan knows the city well,” Aileen says. “He’ll guide us.”
The moment my boots touch the cobblestones beyond the outer gate, something in me loosens. I hadn’t noticed how tightly I’d been holding myself.
The town is already awake, already loud. Banners of greenand pale yellow hang from windows. Garlands are draped over door frames, woven thick with early blossoms and ribbon. Children race past us with flowers tangled in their hair, shrieking with laughter, their hands sticky with honeyed bread.
I turn to Rowan as he sets off ahead of us, moving with the ease of someone who belongs to these streets.
“You’re from Acheron, then?” I ask.
“Born here,” he says. “Learned to walk on these stones. Learned to run faster on them.”
I smile. “Well, lead the way!”
He glances back at us, eyes bright. “If you’re trusting me to guide you through Acheron, Your Majesty, I should warn you—I know all the shortcuts and most of the trouble.”
“A comforting introduction,” I tell him. “I assume you’ll let me know which is which before it’s too late.”
He shrugs. “It’s easy. If I start running, I suggest you do the same.”
The laugh escapes me before I can stop it, too loud, perhaps, but entirely sincere. Aileen beams at me as though she’s won something.
“Look at you,” she says. “I thought you’d forgotten how.”
“So did I,” I answer, and mean it.
The town itself is prettier than I remember, or perhaps I am simply seeing it with kinder eyes. There are many stone houses here—solid, confident things, their walls thick and pale, a quiet declaration of wealth. Merchants live well in this place. But most of the town is timber-framed, beams dark against whitewashed walls, shutters painted in careful blues and reds and greens.
The streets are cobbled, uneven underfoot, the stones wornsmooth by centuries of trade. Everywhere I turn, there is water.
A shallow river runs alongside the market road, slow and wide, its surface broken by flat-bottomed boats laden with crates and barrels. Men shout greetings as they pass, pushing goods downstream with long poles. A narrower stream cuts directly through the town itself, threading between houses splashing cheerfully beneath small wooden bridges.
And then there are the springs.
Steam rises from them in lazy curls, even in the warmth of the day. People kneel along their edges, sleeves rolled high, scrubbing linens against stone. The smell reaches me before Aileen can warn me—sulfurous.
I wrinkle my nose. “Devil’s mercy!—”
Aileen laughs far too quickly. “It smells awful, but it’s said to be good for you.”
