Page 33 of Thorn Season (Thorn Season #1)

“ I looked into Nelle’s whereabouts,” Garret said, the revelry outside drowning his voice. Beyond our ivy-covered alcove, the fresh air was abuzz with laughter and the rhythmic whoosh-thud as arrows sent apples into troughs.

This afternoon, every noble would pay tribute to the gods of harvest by firing two arrows into two apples—the first for good produce, the second for good appetite. All pierced apples would be stewed, spiced, and folded into sugar-dusted pies.

“And?” I asked, stomach growling as the scent of caramel sauce drifted from the kitchens.

“And Carmen wasn’t lying. Nelle moves around often and covers her tracks. She was last seen in Avanford one year ago.”

I grimaced. Nelle was still my lead suspect, but since visiting Backplace, my threads of information crisscrossed like cobweb silk. I’d considered that Nelle’s strongest motive for these Huntings was to produce an unstable kingdom, ripe with tension and ready to fall.

But fall to whom, if Carmen was truly fleeing Daradon with her lover?

Perhaps Garret had been right and we were dealing with Wholeborn extremists, motivated only by their hatred of Wielders.

But if so, was Nelle still best-placed at the top of my list?

Other figures at court displayed a more obvious Wielder intolerance—like Sabira, who was already scouring her province’s abandoned smithies for sympathizer units.

But it had been Nelle’s chamber key beside Wray’s body—and that fact looped me back to the beginning of my theory cycle.

Clearly missing a piece of the picture, I’d thought to access Nelle directly.

Now I could only hope Kevi Banday knew enough about the copycats to make my next request worthwhile.

“I need information,” I said stiltedly, “about the Hunting on the Jacomb estate.” I lowered my voice to explain exactly what I’d offered Junius yesterday.

Garret’s forehead puckered. “You shouldn’t have promised that.”

“Can you get it or not?”

A sigh whistled through his nose. This was the first we’d spoken since Grayday, when, after having touched my specter for the first time in seven years, he’d left me staring after him. I’d believed he’d drawn all the way back into himself then, unreachable.

And yet our interaction today felt... fragile . Like the pain we’d both laid bare that night had truly paved a new ground beneath us—but that one wrong step would send us falling through the cracks.

Finally, he said, “I’ll try.” Then, stiffly, unused to showing concern: “Remember they might be watching you now. You’re being careful?”

Actually , I replied internally, I’ve been traipsing around the city, not-so-subtly asking for information about my attacker’s weapon.

But before I could think of a more palatable answer, applause erupted from Erik’s group of nobles; the king had just struck his first apple off its stand.

He milked the attention before aiming again, his second arrow zipping straight and true.

The group cheered louder, like the juice spray of an apple was the most entertaining thing they’d ever seen.

My gaze drifted to a nearby group, where, in contrast to Erik’s silver-blue grandeur, Keil stood as a figure of sun-soaked gold, all easy composure and rolling muscles.

He was chatting, laughing, demonstrating the proper archery stance to a cohort of giggling noblewomen.

Defying tradition, he’d nocked both arrows at once, and now he angled diagonally before the two stands.

He drew the bowstring taut—his white shirt straining around his biceps, his back muscles bunching with the pull—and I warmed with the memory of his body locked around mine.

I was wondering how those muscles might feel in a softer embrace, going loose against me, when Keil released the bowstring—and his arrows whooshed free, hitting the apples in a successive splat-splat .

The resulting applause of Keil’s little group rivaled that of the king’s.

I bit my lip around a smile.

“That’s the ambassador?” Garret murmured, reclaiming my attention. He’d been watching me watch Keil. Now his gaze narrowed on the Wielder, and I tensed, awaiting that spark of recognition. But Garret’s expression flickered instead with something like rivalry as he said, “He’s young.”

I exhaled. I didn’t want Garret knowing where to find the Wielder who’d disarmed him on the Verenian fields, and whose accomplices had beaten him bloody. Though, truthfully, I didn’t know which of the two men I was trying to protect.

Garret turned toward me again, adjusting his cufflink. “I should get back before Briar notices I’m gone. She’s no closer to locating the compass, and growing more anxious by the day.”

“Good,” I muttered.

“ You don’t have to live with her.” He quirked a brow, smirking. “She nearly disemboweled one of your cousins last night for breathing too hard near her dinner plate.”

I huffed in amusement—then blinked, surprised. It was the first time in years that Garret had drawn from me anything resembling laughter.

He must have realized it, too, because his smirk fell. He watched me closely now, brows pinched—unease bordering on panic. As if the sound of my humor would pull him somewhere he didn’t want to go.

Then he cleared his throat, all sharp edges and brutal business. “She’ll calm down once the compass is in my hands.”

Once the compass is in my hands.

I averted my eyes at the sudden twist of guilt. Then I paused, noticing redness around Garret’s tanned wrist.

“What’s that?” I grabbed his sleeve, and he actually startled.

“Nothing.” He tried to extricate my searching fingers, but I’d already bared his raw skin—slightly raised and shiny, as if from a slow-healing rope burn.

“Garret—”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated firmly, pulling away. But I’d seen that look on him before—proud and resigned, with a shadow of humiliation.

It was how he’d looked after Briar had beaten him as a boy.

My specter bristled.

“Did she do that?” I asked, dangerously low. Garret looked away—a silent admission. “Let me see.” I grabbed for him again.

“No.” He drew his arms back. “You still fuss like a nursemaid.”

“And you still grouse like a child.” I reached all the way around him, my cheek skimming his blazer.

“Alissa.” The way he said my name—soft and unguarded—made me look up.

My arms encircled him in a near-embrace, our bodies brushing close, but he didn’t pull away.

In fact, an uncertain smile was testing itself around his mouth.

He gently took my wrists from behind him, unwound me, and returned my arms to my sides. “I’m fine,” he promised.

My chest twinged as his touch slipped down, grazing my hands before withdrawing.

I swallowed, taking a long backstep.

I’d always known it would hurt to stitch the tear between Garret and me; the needle would have to skewer us both before dragging us back together.

But it wasn’t until Grayday, when his shuddering breaths had kissed across my specter with enough vulnerability to crack me down the middle, that I realized how deeply he’d always cared for me. How he’d never really stopped.

But while I’d forever taken the same form in Garret’s mind—never changing, because I hadn’t been the one who’d walked away— I had to relearn him.

And I didn’t yet know how to feel about this new openness in his eyes.

I didn’t know how much of myself I wanted to trust him with again—or whether, after all these years, whatever I could give would be enough for him, considering he’d never quite let me go.

But maybe having Garret in my life again—in any capacity—might be worth the pain of finding out.

So I smothered my pride. Decided to take the next skewering. “You could stay,” I offered quietly. “Make your tribute to the gods.”

Garret squinted across the field, dark lashes tipped with sunlight. His barely there smile disappeared. “I haven’t had an appetite for seven years. An arrow won’t change that.”

I considered trying again. But it felt like we kept reaching toward one another at different moments, missing each other every time. So, I donned my silk gloves and let him be.

We split in opposite directions without a second glance.

I was climbing the field, still troubling over Garret’s rope burns, when Erik blocked my path with an outstretched bow.

His eyes sparkled. “Care to make your tribute?”

I grasped the bow, pulling up a smile. “I’d be honored.”

As I joined the king’s group—heavily composed of eighteenth-season girls—I glanced coldly at Perla, having lost all sympathy for her since she’d practically threatened to expose my association with Keil.

Though as I watched her shrink from the king now, I realized I shouldn’t have worried.

She couldn’t stand to look Erik in the eyes long enough to make her claim against me.

I nocked my first arrow as the attendant placed an apple atop each stand. Then he moved so far aside that I glared. Though I wasn’t exactly a talented archer, I was unlikely to veer that far off target.

Erik drifted over, chuckling, his embroidered jacket scratching my arms. “Allow me.”

I tried not to clench up as his body curved behind me. He commandeered my hold on the bow, fingers closing over mine, his cool breath tickling my bare nape. I shivered, wishing I’d worn my hair down. Of course trapping a girl had to be Erik’s idea of courtship.

“They’re good shots.” His words grazed against me. “The Parrians.”

I took the opportunity to shift away slightly, looking toward the nobles from the military province and their trough of conquered apples. Sabira seemed the anomaly of the group, having just about hit her second apple after widely missing the first—a combination foretelling no produce, all appetite.

For a woman who always appeared battle-ready in her armored gown, I’d expected better aim.

“Did you know,” said Erik, lifting my bow into my eyeline, “that Parrians have a way of identifying Wielders?”

My body tensed. My specter curled into a knot. “Oh?” I breathed.