There was a small path at the edge of the clearing, and scarcely three steps into the Wood, the winter returned. When she looked back at where she had been, there was only the cold morning behind her. But as the sun filtered down through the bare branches and glittered on the new snow, the Wood was every bit as alive as it was in the summer. Her footprints pushed aside the snow to reveal the deep brown of fallen leaves, and red chokecherries climbed among the evergreens—startling color in the gray and white landscape. She soon came to a clearly marked trail dotted with the hoofprints of deer; it took her to the treeline and, finally, the meadow behind Quinn House. She could not see her footprints from the night before; the whole of the meadow was clean and unbroken. She walked across the open space, her feet crunching through the snow into the dry grass below.
She let herself in through the garden gate and the kitchen door. It was silent and chilly indoors, and it no longer felt like home. She went into her room and opened the trunk, and there at the bottom were her books of fairy tales, her mother’s herbal, and the medallion—Sidhean’s final gift to her. She thought she might put it on a chain, someday, and it would remind her of the fairy who had, in his own strange way, shown her how to save herself. She put the books and the medallion into a canvas bag, then went out into the front hall and took down one of Clara’s spare cloaks. Before she left, she paused with her hand on the front door and looked back at the hall for a minute. The door to the kitchen was partway open, and she could see the edge of the kitchen table and the handle of a mug. Then she opened the front door and stepped outside, and the sun was bright in her eyes.
Just past West Riding, as she was walking up the same road she had taken the night before, she heard a merchant’s wagon coming behind her. When she waved at the driver, he halted beside her and asked, “Where are you going?”
“To the City,” she replied. “Are you headed there?”
“I am,” he said. “There’s room for you in the back, if you’d like.” He gestured toward the wagon bed, which was piled with bolts of cloth. She thanked him and climbed on and watched as the village of West Riding receded behind them. When they arrived in the City, the merchant dropped her off at the Square, where a dozen men and women were cleaning up the remains of the bonfire from the night before. As she passed them, she saw a glint of gold in a crack between the paving stones, and she bent down to pick up a gold coin, stamped on one side with a crown and on the other with a stag’s head. She pocketed it and continued walking.
By the time she arrived at Page Street, it was nearly noon. She hesitated on the street in front of Lady Isobel’s sister’s house, and decided to slip around the rear to the servants’ entrance. In the yard, one of the stable hands saw her, but she merely waved at him and went on to the back door. Inside she nearly managed to slip up the back stairs unseen, but the cook spied her from the kitchen and cried, “Aisling! Whatever are you doing? We were certain you had run away.”
Ash paused on the bottom step and said, “I’m only here to pick up my things, and then I am going. Please don’t tell anyone.” But the cook’s expression did not convince her that she would keep quiet, so Ash ran up the stairs to Gwen’s room, not waiting for a response. Gwen was not upstairs, but the room had been torn apart in her absence—Gwen’s clothes were flung everywhere. She had to search through the mess to find her things, and when she stood up to leave, Clara was standing in the doorway.
“I heard you come in,” Clara said. “Where have you been?” She eyed what Ash was wearing and asked, “Is that my cloak?”
“Yes,” Ash said, and took it off and handed it to her. “I had to borrow it.”
“Did you go home?” Clara asked curiously.
“Yes.”
“Mother will never take you back, now,” Clara said.
Ash let out a laugh. “I don’t intend to come back.”
“That was you, then, last night with the King’s Huntress?” Clara said.
Last night seemed an eternity ago, and Ash wondered just how long she had been with Sidhean. But she put all thoughts of him aside, for today was the day after Yule, and she answered, “Yes, that was me.”
“I thought so, but Mother and Ana would not believe it,” Clara said. She grinned mischievously. “You have outmatched Lord Rowan.”
Ash smiled, and she asked, “Who, then, did Prince Aidan choose?”
“He chose an heiress from Seatown—I do not even know her name.”
Her stepsister sounded carefully nonchalant about it, and Ash did not press her for further details. She slung her satchel over her shoulder and said, “I must go. Take care of yourself—and don’t listen to them.” Clara broke into a smile, and on impulse Ash went to her stepsister and embraced her.
When they parted, Clara looked surprised. “Good luck, Ash,” she said.
“Good luck to you, too,” Ash replied, and then she went quickly down the stairs and out the kitchen door, ignoring the cook’s questions. Outside, she began walking away and did not look back, though just before she reached the end of the street she heard her stepmother shouting her name. She went up the hills again, retracing her steps from the night before, but this morning there were no carriages parked by the side of the road, and the thin blanket of snow was melting, making the cobblestones slippery beneath her feet. At the palace gates, the guards were tending to a line of wagons waiting to enter the grounds, and they did not notice when she slipped between the wagons and into the outer courtyard.
For the first time she noticed that in the center of the courtyard was a fountain from which a horse and rider reared, and water plumed out from the horse’s mouth. Ahead of her, the heavy wooden doors to the palace were closed, but a smaller door set within them was unbarred, and she went to the door and pushed it open. Inside, the great hall was lit only by light from the tall, narrow windows set high in the wall, and there were servants polishing the wide expanse of marble. They looked in her direction when she entered, and one said to her, “The servants’ entrance is to the left of the courtyard; you’ve come in the wrong way.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Which way should I go?”
“Don’t bother—just take the corridor down at the end of the hall and go downstairs,” he told her. She nodded and went in the direction he pointed, but instead of taking the stairs she went down a different corridor, walking quickly so that no one would think she did not know where she was going. She passed a tall span of glass windows that overlooked a sunny courtyard; she passed the balcony on which she had stood with the huntress. At last the corridor narrowed and became a wood-paneled hallway that seemed more like someone’s home than a palace, hung with portraits of huntresses dressed in green and brown. She came to the circular chamber inlaid with the image of the stag, and she went to the black doors in the far wall and knocked on them. She waited for what seemed like hours, and just as she was raising her hand to knock once again, the door was opened by a servant wearing the King’s livery.
“I am here to see Kaisa,” she said.
The servant answered, “She is not here.”
“Where is she?” Ash asked. “I must see her.”
He was staring at her as if puzzled, and then she saw recognition dawn on his face. “You are the woman from last night,” he said, looking at her with interest.
“Please,” she said, “just tell me where she is.”
Something in her tone softened him, and he said at last, “She is in the stables.”
“Thank you,” Ash said gratefully, and turned back the way she came. When she returned to the great hall she asked a servant there how to find the stables, and she saw that he recognized her as well. She began to wonder how many people had seen her flee the ballroom. He told her to go back into the courtyard and follow the gravel path around the perimeter; it disappeared through a high stone archway that opened into another, smaller courtyard. On the far side, a set of wide wooden doors gaped open. Beyond them was the stable yard, with stalls opening onto the yard on t
hree sides. She walked slowly past the stalls on her left, looking in each one, and though the horses raised their eyes to her, she did not see the huntress. Just then a stable hand came out of a stall pushing a handcart, and when he saw her he called out, “Are you looking for someone?” But she did not answer, for in the corner stall, where a bay mare stood contentedly eating her noonday feed, Ash found the person she was looking for.
Kaisa was brushing the horse, and when she heard Ash’s footsteps, she looked up from her work, and her hand stilled. She looked tired, Ash saw, as if she had not slept well. There were purple shadows beneath her eyes, and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek. She wore a black tunic that had seen better days, and old brown leggings tucked into scuffed work boots. Now that the moment had come, Ash felt unexpectedly shy, and all the words she had thought she might say abandoned her.
It was Kaisa who broke the silence. “After you left last night, it was all anyone could talk about,” she said. “They asked me about you, but all I could tell them was that I loved you, and I did not know when or if you would return.” By now Kaisa had put down the brush and had come to stand before her. “They brought me your cloak,” she added, “and I have kept it for you.”
Ash stepped toward her, dropping her satchel on the ground, and took the huntress’s hands in her own. She felt as if the whole world could hear her heart beating as she said, “After I left last night, I was not sure whether I would be able to return, but I hoped so, and now I can tell you that it is finished, and I am free to love you.” Then they took the last step together, and when she kissed her, her mouth as warm as summer, the taste of her sweet and clear, she knew, at last, that she was home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people contributed to making this book possible, and I am grateful to everyone who helped bring Ash to life. Thanks to Lesly Blanton, who read it first, and to Sarah Pecora, who showed me the last word. Thanks to my parents, who helped me pay the rent when I told them I was dropping out of grad school to become a writer. Thanks to Sarah Warn, who gave me a job that actually required me to write. Thanks to my fabulous agent, Laura Langlie, who took a chance on me. Thanks to my stellar editor, Kate Sullivan, who brought this book into focus. And thanks to my partner, Amy Lovell: You are my home.
Malinda Lo, Ash
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