So, with a laugh, Neve relented, tossing back the rest of her ale and offering her hand. “Lead the way.”
The steps to the folk dance were as foreign to her as the language the song was sung in, but her partner—Lieve, he informed her, making the introduction between twirls with a dramatic flutter of his hand—led her gallantly through them, gentle touches on her wrist or hip to guide her in the right direction. Neve caught on eventually, laughing hard enough to give herself a side stitch, and when the dance ended with everyone clapping both hands above their heads and stomping one foot, she was right on the beat.
After, the band meandered into a slower tune, one whose melody seemed vaguely familiar. A slight frown creased Neve’s brow as she turned toward the instrumentalists, trying to think of where she’d heard it before.
Lieve smiled, a more reserved one now, and once again held out a somewhat tentative hand. “Slow dances are much easier to learn.”
She could see in his face that he wanted to keep dancing with her, that though he’d never push for something she didn’t want to give, he still wanted to ask. The kind thing to do would be to cut him loose now, let him down gently.
Neve smiled, patted his hand. “I’m afraid I—”
But then a lone voice rose to accompany the melody, and Neve remembered.
It was the lullaby, the same one Solmir had sung her in the crumbling cabin at the edge of the inverted forest. The one he’d sung as he carved the night sky she still kept in her pocket, a worry stone to run her fingers over.
She stood there stricken, until Lieve’s face went from sheepish embarrassment to concern. “Sweet one, are you—”
“May I cut in?”
The voice reverberated from behind her, the one she’d heard in her head all these months. Neve whirled around.
He looked the same and wholly different. Solmir’s hair was still long, worn pulled back in the front, bleached lighter by time in the sun, making his dark brows that much more severe. The scars on his forehead weren’t quite as pronounced, their color blending into his pale skin. His blue eyes were only on her.
“You,” she murmured.
“Me,” he answered.
Behind her, Lieve excused himself with as much dignity as possible. Neve barely noticed. She and Solmir stood in the center of a sea of twisting dancers and neither was quite able to move.
There were too many words between them. Too many things to try to say. So they didn’t. Solmir held out his hand, and Neve took it, and he pulled her in. Neither of them tried to follow the steps of the dance, just swayed against each other, listening to each other’s heartbeat.
She wanted to ask him if he was staying. She wanted to ask what he’d been doing with his time, if he’d been wandering like her, set adrift in a world that slowly changed to be what they’d made it. She could feel magic itching at her fingertips sometimes; could he? Did he try to ignore it as vehemently as she did, unsure if he’d ever be able to stomach the thought of power again? Did he look into the faces of people he passed, wondering if they could feel it, too?
Wondering if they were good?
“Have you decided to believe me?” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, as if he’d read the thoughts in the pattern of her heartbeat.
Neve pressed farther into him. “Tell me again.”
A deep breath, as if he could root her in his lungs. “You are good.”
Her eyes closed. “So are you.”
“Not yet,” he said, close enough to her ear that she could feel his smirk. “But getting closer, I think.”
And she wanted to ask if he’d be there to tell her in the morning, the day after that, if he was staying to make sure she believed it for the rest of whatever strange lives they’d lead. But she didn’t, because she couldn’t be sure of the answer, and if she closed her eyes and breathed him in, lived in this moment until she wrung it dry of everything it could give her, it could be enough. For right now, it could be enough.
That was something else she’d learned about herself.
But when the song ended, when Solmir stepped away from her, when he cocked his head at the staircase that led to her room like a question—she nearly ran up the stairs, grabbing his hand as she went, tugging him behind her.
Acknowledgments
Second books are strange beasts; they take both careful planning and a relinquishing of what you thought they were supposed to be. And if you’re blessed with as incredible a publishing team as I have been, they’re also a ton of fun.
First thanks goes to my husband, Caleb—I plan to read you the funny parts out loud from now until eternity. Thank you for always letting me play my book playlists in the car, even though you really hate Mayday Parade. You’re wrong, but I love you anyway.
Thanks always to Whitney Ross, my agent and partner in crime, who was the first person to tell me Neve deserved her own book. In this, as in everything else, she was right.
And to my amazing editor, Brit Hvide—working with you has been an absolute dream, and I’m so excited that I get to keep doing it. Thanks for pushing me to make every book better than the last, and for always calling me on my bullshit. You are the best of the best.
The entire team at Orbit has been a dream come true, especially Ellen Wright, Angela Man, Angeline Rodriguez, and Emily Byron. I am so appreciative of all the hard work you do to get these books out to the readers who will love them. You are incredible.
To Erin Craig—insert Blair and Serena gif here. Thankful for you always.
To the Pod, Laura, Steph, Anna, Jen, and Joanna—I really can’t tell you all how much you mean to me. Let’s send each other Buzzfeed quizzes until the end of time.
To Saint, Kit, Bibi, Suzie, Emma, Rosie, MK, and Jenny—your support and friendship mean everything.
And to Sarah, Ashley, Chelsea, Stephanie, Nicole, Jensie, Liz, and Leah—you all have been my ride-or-dies for YEARS, and you’re never getting rid of me. Thank you for letting me send you unhinged TikToks. Thank you for being there.
And to the readers—I’ll never be able to express how thrilled I am that you’ve let this story that lived in my heart for so long live in yours, too. None of this happens without you.
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Photo Credit: Caleb Whitten
HANNAH WHITTEN has been writing to amuse herself since she could hold a pen, and she figured out sometime in high school that what amused her might also amuse others. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, making music, or attempting to bake. She lives in a farmhouse in Tennessee with her husband, her children, a dog, two cats, and probably some ghosts. You can find her online at hannahfwhitten.com, and @hwhittenwrites on Twitter and Instagram.
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FOR THE THRONE
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THE FOXGLOVE KING
Book One of The Nightshade Crown