She scrambles around, but no one’s there.
What . . . ? she thinks, only once again the word is not in her head but audible, as though an invisible person is mimicking her, has crawled into her mind and read her thoughts.
Make it stop! she wishes—and it happens again.
A scream erupts from somewhere, so powerful it shakes her entire body, sending her crumpling to the floor covering her ears. Every time she heaves for breath, the sound gets louder, wailing in rhythm to her breathing.
And that’s when it occurs to her.
No one else is here.
She is the one screaming.
Which isn’t possible. It can’t be.
She hears footsteps pounding up the creaky wooden stairs. Someone’s coming. She pushes to her knees, tries to get her mind to focus. Maybe she should hide in the wardrobe, or—
The bedroom door flies open and a young man enters.
Instantly he is at her side, one arm around her. She experiences this stranger’s unexpected embrace in a way she has never experienced anything before. The heat of him, the closeness—it’s too intense. Too overwhelming. She yanks herself away.
Touch.
“Are you all right? Can I help you?” he’s saying.
She finds she is shaking. She can’t tell if this is a dream or a nightmare.
“Shh,” he says. “Take a deep breath. One, two. Good.”
She settles somewhat and looks at him. Her attacker? No, her rescuer. He can’t be much older than her. His eyes are a blend of browns and greens like summer ponds, their depths unclear—not how she imagined any of the heroes in her stories. In her mind, Rowan always had shiny gray eyes, like the still-hot ridges of a burnt log. This man is no prince, either. He’s barefoot, with the deep tan and streamlined muscles of a field worker—and thin too, as though there is nothing to spare in his life. He’s carrying netting, a bow and arrow, and a large coil of rope on his back.
“What are you doing in here?” he asks, reaching out to help her to her feet.
The gesture is unassuming, easy, and yet as their hands meet, she once again feels a heat so strong it burns. Every line in his palms, every rough crease in his fingertips makes noise against her skin. She pulls away again, as though stung.
“How did you find this place?” he asks.
Aurora doesn’t know what to do. She opens her lips to respond, but it’s so rare that anyone addresses her in this manner, actually expecting a response. Only an awkward croak comes out.
“Tell me your name. Where did you come from?”
“I’m—” she tries, trembling again at the sound of what must be her own voice. “I’m . . . Aurora,” she manages. “Crown—crown princess of Deluce.” The words feel scrambled on her tongue.
“How did you find the cottage? You must know it’s not safe out here.”
She shakes her head, already exhausted from the few words she’s spoken.
He steps back, suspicion written on his brow. No, he is definitely not Rowan handsome, she can see, nor Ansell strong. And yet there’s something about him—a muddy mingling of adjectives her hands certainly wouldn’t be quick or clever enough to tap into Isbe’s palms.
“Prove you’re not an Impression,” he says quietly. She notices his hand moving toward the hilt of a dagger at his belt.
“I don’t—”
But before she can reply, he takes her wrists roughly in one hand and points his knife to her throat with the other.
She gasps, blinking rapidly, shocked that he has dared to threaten her when only a moment ago he’d wanted to help. . . .
“Tell me,” he says slowly and carefully, “how you got here.”
Aurora swallows. Her throat is still raw from the scream. Her wrists in his hand make a silent scream of their own. Her whole body is buzzing, yet her back against the wall is so final, somehow, it muffles her fear. “A gold—golden wheel,” she begins, shifting nervously and trying not to think about the blade, so close to her neck. She focuses instead on the feeling of her own lips and tongue, the subtle vibrations of air passing through her throat. “A . . . a spinning wheel. I touched it. It . . . it . . . harmed me. I . . .” But she can’t go on. Her voice is harsh and high in her own ears; it echoes in her skull, making it impossible to think.
“A gold spinning wheel,” he repeats.
He slowly draws his knife away from her throat, and she takes a big, shuddering gulp of air. If the pinprick of the spindle hurt, she can’t fathom what a knifepoint might do to her. Just the thought causes her to sway, light-headed.
Very light-headed. How long has it been since she’s eaten, or rested? She blinks rapidly.
He sheaths the dagger and catches her before she faints. Again she is overcome by the heat of his chest, even through his tunic. She breathes in the crisp scent of grass on him and tries to steady herself as he rights her.
This man practically assaulted her a minute ago! It must have been a misunderstanding. She looks up at his jaw. Not as square as the eldest prince of Aubin. She would know. She’s studied many sketches of him.
Then again—she remembers with a cold shock—Philip and Edward of Aubin are both dead.
She has to get home. “Where are we?” Urgency causes her skin to prickle. The two princes were killed, possibly by Queen Malfleur’s forces. Her marriage was supposed to seal the alliance between Aubin and Deluce. The council must be looking for her. And Isbe too.
“That’s an odd question in the Borderlands.”
“Borderlands?” It’s getting easier to speak, as long as she allows each word its own pace, giving her mind and ears time to catch up. And as long as he’s not touching her. “Is that . . . part of the royal forest?”
His face is a mix of surprise and puzzlement. “Moments ago we might have found ourselves in the forest. But who knows what we’ll find when we step outside the cottage this time? Hasn’t anyone ever warned you of the Borderlands? Almost no one makes it out alive. There are only Impressions out here.”
“Impressions?”
“Impressions, yes, have you never heard of them?” he asks, frowning as he leans against the doorframe, blocking any potential escape. “Deceptive creatures. They find the lost and lead them in circles. Right over the edge of cliffs, if you’re unlucky enough. You really don’t know about Impressions?”
She shakes her head.
He glances to the side for a moment. Then, in a lower voice, he goes on. “Impressions will drive you mad, like the queen. They have no past, no memory, and no future. They don’t feel—or at least, they can’t feel anything new. Their emotions—like their words, and their bodies, and their desires—never alter. That’s why I kept asking you how you ended up here. An Impression can only respond in one way, over and over.”