His face pinched as he slid the kerchief into his pocket again. “Ugh, please don’t. You know I hate that name.”
“It’s a good name.”
“But it’s not me.”
No, it really wasn’t. “Prince Lorne” reminded me of a timid boy who disappeared into the wood, chasing after a sound that was never there. He certainly wasn’t a boy anymore, or remotely timid, and he never chased things if he didn’t have to. And when he did, he didn’t cower like that boy in the wood so long ago, or the fox he became. The wood changed us, but perhaps it changed him most of all.
I offered my hand to him. “Fox,” I addressed him, and his eyebrows shot up at the name, “would you care to dance?”
A smile stretched across his lips. “Why, Daisy, I think that would ‘break protocol,’” he said, mocking Seneschal Weiss’s sharp accent. He slipped his hand into mine. “So of course I’d love to. I am a fantastic dance partner.”
“Because you’re dancing with me,” I teased, and led him out into the middle of the royal garden, where all the people I had known my entire life danced and sang and laughed. Where Wen was falling for the Grandmaster of Voryn, and my father was recounting the Great Pig Race of the Summerside Year—again—by the wine barrels. The music was bright and happy, and Fox gathered my hand in his and placed my other hand on his waist, and we followed into the dance, swept away in the happiness of it all.
There was no curse, no dark clouds.
I had lived a fairy tale, where for a moment a royal gardener’s daughter was no longer stuck behind garden walls, and foxes turned into princes, and I said without thinking, “I think I love you, Fox.”
He stumbled on his feet. A blush ate up his cheeks. “Wh-what?”
“I think I love you.”
He stared at me, and the part of his brain that he had sectioned off for dance had died, because we were just standing now in the middle of the crowd of people, and he had this awestruck look on his face. “You . . . you what?”
People were beginning to stare. “I mean, you don’t have to make a scene if you don’t feel the same—”
“You too,” he quickly fumbled, and winced. My hopes began to rise like morning mists in the valley. “I mean I yes—no, that’s not right. You think you love me—I love that you—what I mean is—”
I stood up on my tiptoes and pressed my lips to his to save him the embarrassment, and he melted into me, relieved that I understood what he meant. He smelled like fresh oak trees and spring rain, and as I curled my fingers into his hair he nibbled at my lip, exploring, tempting. My heart thumped in my chest like a jackrabbit, so bright and hopeful it hurt, and when we finally broke apart, he asked, breathless, “How do you feel about foxes?”
“I love foxes. Even the thieving, sly ones. How do you feel about gardeners?”
“I love one in particular,” he replied, and twined his fingers into mine.
I grinned. “Do you want to go?”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.”
He blinked in surprise. “Now?”
“Now,” I whispered, and led him toward the archway draped in thawing honeysuckle vines, away from the garden I had always known. I glanced one last time at Papa, who watched me from the dessert table and raised his glass to me. Wander, he mouthed, and smiled the kind of goodbye that had good luck tucked into the corners.
The night was fresh, and the new spring winds blew warm and sweet, and like a dandelion tuft caught on a breeze, I let go of the girl I used to be and led Fox into the Wilds.
THE END
Acknowledgments
When I wrote Among the Beasts & Briars, this story was only a seedling of an idea—a flower just for me. And I’m so thankful that I have the opportunity to share it with you.
I would like to thank Holly Root for believing in this strange story of mine, and for Kelsey Murphy for first seeing the spark of what it could be. But mostly, I want to thank Jordan Brown, who saw that spark, and saw what this book could become, and helped me create something wild and wonderful. I also want to thank my copy editor, Renée Cafiero, who I have worked with twice before, and every time I am just blown away by how she polishes my words into something that shines. Thank you all so, so much.
Thank you to Nicole Brinkley, who read an earlier draft and said, “This is only half a story, Ash,” and to Ada Starino and Savvy Apperson and Shae McDaniel, who all read my last drafts and confirmed that yes, finally, it is a whole story!
I want to thank Katherine Locke and Kaitlyn Sage Patterson, both for telling me this story is worthy and for never giving up on me when I felt like giving up on myself. Get yourself friends who will look your depression in the eye and tell it, “Not today.”
And thank you, reader, for reading to the very last page, past THE END. These stories have always been for me, but I am so glad that I can share them with you.
Thank you.
Petra escorted the queen of Aloriya back to her chambers after the coronation, though there were still quite a few people dancing through the night. She didn’t know how late—or early—it was, but the night felt endless. She didn’t want it to end, especially now.
The queen paused in the doorway, as if remembering. “Oh, we never talked about the treaty!”
“I think we’ll have time tomorrow . . . Wen.” Every time she said the queen’s name, it felt electric against her tongue. She dared not hope too much, because this was the queen of Aloriya, and she probably had plenty of suitors who didn’t come from a once-cursed wood.
But as she began to leave, the queen caught her wrist. “Wait.”
Petra’s heart raced like a shooting star across the sky. She dared not hope as she turned around, and the girl with golden hair and a crown of daisies and teeth a little too sharp pecked her on the lips. Softly, sweetly, as if asking a question. And in reply, Petra took her gently—so gently—by the sides of her face and pressed their lips together again, and in the open doorway of Queen Anwen of Aloriya’s chambers, they kissed in a sliver of moonlight.
Seren stepped into the heart of the wood and knelt down beside the Lady, his joints stiff from rigor mortis. “You summoned me?” he asked in a dry baritone.
The Lady was too bright to look at directly. He wasn’t sure if she was on fire or simply shining with a brilliant sort of magic, but she bathed the entire grove in golden sunlight. Even in her brilliance, though, he did notice by the roots of her throne a young woman with dark hair and amber skin and peculiar violet eyes—a person from Nor. She watched Seren cautiously, curling her knees up toward her chest, drawing attention to her unmoving arm that was being turned, millimeter by millimeter, to stone.
A curse.
And stranger still—she wasn’t frightened by his appearance, unlike everyone else he had come across.
The Lady said in a voice that sounded as though it came from the roots and the trees and the leaves and the flowers all around him, “This young woman has invoked the Rites of Debt. She wants the flower that cures death itself to save her. And you shall help her find it.”