I began to let go. It was a sweet surrender, to not have to hold on to things so fiercely as I had before. To open my hands and my heart and be who I wanted to be.

“Clem,” Phelan whispered.

It was the last thing I heard.

Mazarine suddenly appeared before us. In one swift stroke, she yanked the arrow from my heart.

I closed my eyes and surrendered to the rush of darkness.

43

One does not expect to wake after their heart has stopped beating, after they have slipped into the cold, quiet dark. One also does not expect to return to the light only to be greeted by a troll.

Mazarine sat beside me, her human form gone, shed like scales. She was just as I remembered from that fateful September day months ago: a jagged face like rocks, teeth overlapping her lips, stained with old blood. Coarse hair that shone silver, threaded with leaves and sticks and thorny vines. Her twin horns gleamed like bones.

She noticed my stirring and smiled, which roused a tiny flame of fear in me.

“My mortal girl awakens,” she said. “Sit forward and drink.”

I didn’t tell her I felt weak and shaky, and that my chest smoldered with pain. I didn’t think it wise to oppose her, even if her love for me had made her disguise break, and she helped me sit forward in my bed.

I blinked against the streams of sunlight that flooded in through the balcony doors. I didn’t recognize this room. It was far grander than the one I had originally chosen for myself, and I frowned, rubbing the ache in my temples.

“Mazarine . . . where am I?”

“The fortress in the clouds,” she answered, lifting a wooden cup of cold water to my lips. “The Duchy of Seren. The realm of Azenor. Drink, Clementine.”

I sighed, exasperated by her replies, but began to sip the water. It washed through me, trickling into the parched places of my soul, and I felt refreshed.

And then Mazarine added, “My duchess.”

I promptly choked on the water.

“What did you call me?” I rasped, coughing. The pain flared in my chest, and I groaned, laying my hand over my heart. I could feel linen bandages wrapped snugly around me, beneath my chemise. But my wound was still bright and tender. I wondered how long it would take before I could breathe without feeling that pinch of pain.

“I called you duchess,” the troll replied.

“Why? I’m not your duchess.”

She cocked her gnarled brow at me. “You do not remember, Clementine?”

I traced through my memories. Bloodstains, darkness, wind, shattering glass. Breaking and breathing and arrows and dreams and the rhythm of Phelan’s heart against my cheek.

“I remember, but Phelan is the one who claimed the throne,” I said.