Princess of Thorns

“Thank the gods for your blessings,” Gettel says. “When Niklaas carried you in you were curled up so tight, I wasn’t sure you’d use your hands again. The poor boy was out of his mind with worry.” She smiles fondly, and I can tell she has a soft spot for Niklaas, no matter how sternly she scolded him a few moments ago. “Wept like a man over you, he did. And stayed right by your side until the fever broke.”

I pause, letting the edge of the glass slip from my lips. “Really?”

She nods as she straightens the covers. “If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

I finish the milk and clutch the glass to my chest. “The love of a friend.”

“No, my dear,” she says, a secret smile on her lips. “I’ve seen the way a boy looks at a sick friend. Niklaas feels the way you do. Just give him some time.”

He doesn’t have time, I think, not sure what to think, or feel, about what she’s said.

It’s probably best not to feel anything. I’m not sure she’s right about Niklaas. I can’t even say for certain that she’s right about me. I care for Niklaas and admire him and there are times—when he isn’t being impossible—that I’d like to kiss him and keep on kissing until I’ve pressed my lips to every bit of his ridiculously perfect body, but is that love? And what if it is? Even assuming Niklaas loves me and I return his love, what does it matter? We’re both cursed, and he’ll be a swan before Nonstyne becomes Harmontyne.

But he doesn’t have to be. If Gettel’s right, all it would take is a kiss …

My hand shakes as I set the glass on the bedside table. I can’t believe I let the thought enter my mind. I can’t do that to Niklaas. As frustrating as I find him sometimes, I’d never want him to agree with everything I said. I’d never want to see him empty of his own desires, a slave to my every whim. I’d never want to see him like Thyne.

“Don’t fret, sugar. These things have a way of working themselves out,” Gettel says, resting a hand on my head.

She has no idea how complicated things are between Niklaas and me, but I nod anyway.

She grins, causing a starburst of wrinkles to form around her eyes. “Now let me help you to a chair by the fire downstairs. I’ll put up your hair before di

“That sounds wonderful.” I toss off the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed, grateful to feel the floor beneath my bare feet. I let Gettel help me into a pale blue dress and hold my arm as we walk down the stairs, though I’m feeling stronger than I thought I would. Still, a hand to hold is appreciated. I’m nervous to see Niklaas, anxious that somehow he’ll read all the conflicted thoughts racing through my mind on my face.

But I needn’t have worried. Niklaas is gone.

The only people in the kitchen are a gray-haired woman Gettel introduces as Baba, her assistant, and a little girl of six or seven with coffee-colored skin and wild brown curls asleep on a giant pillow before the fire, a snoring Hund curled by her side.

“That’s my granddaughter, Kat,” Gettel whispers as she settles me in a chair a few hands away.

“But you’re so young,” I say before I think better of it.

“I’m older than I look. Kat is my third granddaughter. The eldest is twelve.” Gettel winks before turning to fetch a brush from the mantel, where a hundred different objects, mundane and magnificent, fight for space.

There are brushes and stacks of soap and a giant bottle of honey, side by side with small animal skulls, a vase of exotic feathers, a black-haired doll with shining stone eyes, and a gray rock filled with purple crystals. The rock is the same sort witches are said to leave behind after they steal a harvest. I wonder if Gettel leads raids on the surrounding villages in Frysk, and how she happened to be living so far south of the frozen lands the other witch-born are said to call home, but I’m too shy to ask. I don’t know Gettel well and I’m too deeply in her debt to risk being nosy or rude.

“Kat is my special helper,” Gettel continues as she brushes my hair in long, soothing strokes. “Her mom is … away for a time, so Kat is staying with me. She’s thrilled to have Hund for a visit. They’ve been wearing each other out ru

“Is Evensew already so close?” I ask, tension creeping into my neck.

“Tomorrow evening,” Gettel says, banishing the laziness from my bones. “I was afraid you would miss it, but now that you’re up and about, you’re welcome to join us.”

“I’d like that,” I mutter, mind racing. Gettel continues to chatter about the festival as she twists my hair into a pile of coils atop my head, but I listen with only half an ear. I must have spent more days with the mercenaries than I thought, or lost track of a day while Niklaas and I were traveling or … something. It can’t be Evensew already!

Evensew, the day when the living sew the memory of the dead back into their lives with a festival honoring the ones they’ve lost, is always on the seventh of Nonstyne. That means Niklaas’s birthday is only eight days away. He has only eight days, and Jor may not have much longer. Surely the Hawthorne tree will be changing its colors soon.

I would be tempted to tell Niklaas I’ve changed my mind about his offer if I thought he had a chance of getting both himself and Jor out alive. But if he became a guest in Ekeeta’s castle, she wouldn’t take her eyes off of him long enough for him to free Jor. He would have to have someone else with him, someone who could journey to the dungeon without arousing suspicion, another warrior posing as a servant or a—

“Prisoner,” I breathe as a plan blooms in my mind, flowering as fast as the morning lilies on the west side of the island back home.

“What’s that, sugar?” Gettel steps back to survey my hair with a critical eye.

“Nothing,” I say, though my thoughts are still racing.

Alone, Niklaas and I would both fail. But if we went together—with me posing as his prisoner, a bribe to convince Ekeeta to grant Niklaas sanctuary from his father—it might work. Niklaas could keep the queen distracted while I find a way to free Jor and myself from the dungeon. And if I can’t find a way, Niklaas could risk freeing us knowing he has my staff at his back.

Niklaas is an amazing fighter, and, thanks to my fairy blessings, I’m as good as three or four men. All we’d have to do is get out of the dungeon and down the wall walk to the old dock. We could have a boat waiting behind the rocks, ready to spirit us all away to Malai. We’d still be taking a terrible risk, but at least we’d have a chance, maybe even a good chance. And if we act at the right moment—

“There!” Gettel jabs a final pin into the pile of hair on my head. “Now you look like a princess, sweet pea.”

I smile, enjoying the fact the Gettel feels free to call me anything but “my lady.” I don’t feel worthy of being anyone’s ruler, yet, but if I can save my brother and convince Niklaas to marry me and keep the ogre prophecy from coming to pass, then …

Well, then almost anything will seem possible, including raising an army to take back my throne.

“May I go outside?” I ask, coming to my feet. “I want to find Niklaas.”

“Of course you may. Tell him supper will be ready in an hour.”

I leap to my feet and hurry to the door, feeling lighter than I have in weeks—anxious and nervous and frightened, but hopeful.

The hope lasts just minutes, the time it takes to find Niklaas prowling back and forth behind Gettel’s barn, helping two other boys load casks of beer into a cart, and to convince him to walk with me to the stream where twin willows sway in the breeze.