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Kindle Notes & Highlights
by
Sarah Zimm
Read between
December 31, 2024 - January 2, 2025
He is obliging her, again, as though it’s a game. They’ve always played games, ever since… She isn’t sure how long. Since they were kids, maybe. Though, for some reason, the memory of meeting Rune is out of reach.
“I’m sorry, Fellie. You’re too important. We’re going to run. You’re going to follow me.”
Hart can wear any face. Usually, they’re of the dead.
A symbolic gesture that says they would lay down their lives for one another. Hart never truly trusts it. If he’s learned anything in life, it’s that trust—like love—given hastily is always regretted.
Rune tries to remember how many times he’s made a trip like this. A couple a year, for three-and-a-half years, in similar cities, in other times. 1854. 1835. 1852. 1874.
“You ran away from the farm, Teacup. This is what you’ve got now.” He holds his arms out wide. “This world has no mercy for naïve girls hiding under a scoundrel’s coattails. You want to make it? Show me what you can do.” A frown sours her mouth. “Stop calling me Teacup.”
There are hands on her then. Men, touching a woman in a way they shouldn’t. And that’s it. Fury is a beast inside Falcon.
“I cannot opine on the moons, Your Grace, as you know I’m your military strategist and not an astronomer. But the dagger is guarded. And you banished or slayed the power it would take to unleash its magic years ago.”
But trees can’t speak, not even those with blood-red leaves. And yet, this tree appears sentient, staring at her from the center of this dream, whispering unintelligibly from a castle courtyard draped in winter.
His calloused fingers brush her skin once more, and she flushes at the surprising heat that blooms there. Falcon has the gall to notice how it flusters her, of course, and raises a brow as he stands.
He fights the urge to rush over, take her hand, and confess how relieved he is she’s in one piece. He can’t do that. He remembers every moment. She forgets every last one.
“You’re strong and smart and a pain in my ass. You’re the hero of your own story.”
The cut isn’t gaping, or even bright red, which is strange. Magies don’t heal much faster than humans, not without help, but this looks at least a day old. He’ll think on that later.
“You’re easy to like, Fellie. Even when you’re trouble.”
“Never apologize for your achievements. Women are always doing that.”
Except… Is it a true relief if you must hide who you are? If you bear memories of people you left?
“When I love someone, I will for as long and as best as I can, and I’ll express that love every day if I please. Why should anyone else have something to say about it?”
One in particular, with dark studs piercing the rim of his ears and strange two-colored eyes, sends chills down Ophelia’s arms.
In a second, he’s back, and Ophelia wonders how she ever thought Hart Aurum was cold. Those eyes may very well burn the world to nothing. “You remembered everything. And it nearly broke you.”
“Before the Gray King, Magies reigned. There was one throne with three seats, for the three guilds: Witchists, Matterists, and Morphists.
There’s no room for doubt on the wings of birds, let alone on the mane of moon dust.
“Oh, I assure you I’m real, Ophelia. And you’ll never be rid of me.”
Somehow, when the Dark Shadow Dagger cursed Osiris Lestat, it also cursed Magus. As the king becomes stone, so do the trees that bear everything Magus needs. Which means she cannot just kill him.
Rivmere is the connection, but he isn’t guarding Ophelia for the Gray King. Jasper Salt only serves one master. The Darkwielder must be making a play for the throne.
Every dark shadow must have its light.”
The Darkwielder is a breath of night.
“I’ll be glad to match the mercy I was given, growing up at Gray Castle all those years. Uncle Osiris.” Ophelia’s gaze snaps to the king, then back to the Darkwielder, as soldiers around them murmur. Uncle. That would make the Darkwielder the king’s…nephew.
“Goddess.” The word tremors through her, the one she couldn’t say to Grimm for its aching reminder of what it’s cost. But out of the Darkwielder’s mouth, the word stirs her power.
Ophelia says a quick protection prayer to the goddess of her line—the goddess Selene.
“Gods, what you’re doing to me.” He sighs. “If you want me to put you against a tree again when your heart isn’t broken anymore, nothing in the goddamn worlds will stop me. But we’re not doing this now. I don’t share what’s mine.”
