15
Willow
Willow stepped out of the coach, reminding herself that she was a princess coming home from a kidnapping - not a frightened tourist desperate to lay eyes on the father of her unborn child.
The time alone in the coach had given her exactly zero idea of how to pass herself off as Ashe.
“Your Majesty,” the footman said, bowing low.
Willow tried not to stare up at the glimmering white limestone walls of the castle behind him.
A stout woman in a black dress and white apron trotted up to her, slightly out of breath but smiling.
“Oh, Your Majesty, my sweet girl,” the woman panted. “How glad I am to see that face. Come along, come along, we’ll take care of you.”
Willow allowed herself to be led up the curving stairs and into the massive foyer of the castle.
“Come along, love, come, come,” the woman scolded her, half-dragging her thunderstruck charge past statues and paintings worthy of a museum. “Let Iona take care of you, like when you were a wee babe.”
Willow swallowed at the idea.
She had been feeling relieved that she was clearly dashing off with a servant rather than being presented to the king and queen. But if this woman had been in charge of raising her, she might know Ashe better than anyone.
They marched down an endless hallway of what she assumed were family paintings. Stern patrician faces gazed down their noses at Willow as if they knew she didn’t belong.
I do belong, she told herself.
But she didn’t feel like she did. It was impossible to think she was anyone other than herself - the daughter of Al and Wendy Ryder of Rosethorn Valley, a waitress with a sweet little apartment over the Barrel Grocery store.
Iona opened a door, revealing a luxurious suite of rooms.
“Here we are, dear,” Iona said briskly. “Let’s get you out of those dreadful robes.”
Iona reached for Willow’s glove-clad hands.
Willow jerked them back. “I-I’m cold,” she said.
Iona’s eyes grew wide.
Too late, Willow realized her mistake. She’d just been walking through a drafty stone castle and hadn’t felt cold at all. She never felt cold. She wondered if it was even possible for a member of the Winter Court to feel cold.
“You’ve been through a lot, dearie,” Iona said, composing herself. “You can undress yourself for your bath. I’ll be sure to have nice things set out for you.”
“Th-that would be wonderful,” Willow said, just catching herself before saying thank you. She wouldn’t have been able to overcome that level of faux pas.
Iona nodded, looking down.
Willow knew the last thing she should do was ask about Heath, but she couldn’t help herself.
“What do you think will happen to the man who kidnapped me?” she asked as lightly as she could.
“It’s not my place to say, dear,” Iona replied thoughtfully. “But I imagine they will ransom him back to his family.”
Willow nodded, trying not to show her relief. That made sense. The Autumn Court would pay a high price for their prince.
“They’ve called your brothers home,” Iona went on. “The Winter Court is preparing for war.”
That was less encouraging.
“Take your bath, dear,” Iona said. “I’ll be in the antechamber.” She pointed helpfully to a door on the other side of the room. “Just knock if you want help dressing. I will not enter unless you knock. You will have your privacy.”
Willow felt a pang of guilt. She guessed the woman suspected Willow had been in some way molested, and that was why she was covering herself.
She had only been anxious to keep the tattoo twisting around her wrist out of sight. She wouldn’t have been able to explain that away. But it was helpful not to be cross-examined.
Willow headed for the bathroom, where a steaming bath had already been drawn. She closed and locked the door, then looked around.
There did not seem to be any other way in or out. The window showed her she was high enough that climbing out wasn’t an option.
The reflection of snowy white mountains on the frozen lake sparkled in the last of the sunlight, looking both beautiful and dangerous.
Think, Willow, think…
But she couldn’t think of anything.
For now she would have to take a bath, dress herself, and try to keep an open mind about escaping.
Heath would soon go back to his realm and his family.
It was time to go back to hers.
If she truly meant anything to him, Heath would come to the mortal realm to find her again, she was sure of it. The best thing she could do was go back, and hopefully find the real Ashe and send her home.
If the bounty hunter hadn’t found her already.
She bathed quickly and wrapped herself in a long, soft robe.
She unlocked the door and poked her head out.
No one was in her bedroom.
Her clothing had been laid out on the giant bed. There was a pale blue gown, as well as a bevy of strange undergarments and what she thought might be a petticoat.
Thankfully, there was also a pair of cream-white, satin gloves.
Willow felt a surge of gratitude for Ashe’s nanny, who had sensed and honored her desire to cover herself, even if she hadn’t understood it.
There was some good in the Winter Court after all.
16
Heath
Heath trudged down the stone stairs, one pair of Winter Court soldiers in front of him, another behind, carrying torches that feebly battled the damp and the dark.
They were far below ground at this point. Moisture seeped from the walls and lichen grew on the mortar between the huge stones of the foundation. Yet the stairs continued down into the unknown, all sounds of their passage swallowed up by the oppressive darkness that pressed in on their meager torchlight.
The agony of the iron manacles against his skin blunted his fear for what awaited him below.
Winter and Autumn had been locked in a perpetual quarrel since before he’d been born.
These soldiers of Winter now had their hands on an Autumn royal, accused of kidnapping a princess. They were taking him to a dungeon without witnesses.
He knew that the iron around his wrists and ankles would be the least of the abuse he would suffer at their hands.
He forced himself to focus on Willow, to keep his thoughts by her side, even if he couldn’t be there himself.
She had handled herself like a professional actor up there. He had no doubt she was being pampered like the Winter princess she was.
In some ways, it was extraordinarily lucky that the real Ashe had not been close with her parents. Willow might actually be able to hide her identity for enough to plot her escape.
She was the spitting image of her changeling.
Except for the vines that showed her to be betrothed.
Had she remembered to keep her hands covered?
There was no more time for Heath to worry about it. They had arrived at the dungeon, deep in the bowels of a tower, the cells encircling a round stone floor with an ancient-looking desk at its center.
It was exactly what he would have imagined if someone had asked him to picture a Winter dungeon. The cells were tiny, the prisoners looked miserable, and it was so cold that his breath plumed in the air before him.