A Court of Frost and Starlight (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3.5)

by Sarah J. Maas

Emerie had drifted a few feet away, her back straight, chin upraised. He’d seen Nesta in that particular pose, too. He called it her I Will Slay My Enemies pose. Cassian had named about two dozen poses for Nesta at this point. Ranging from I Will Eat Your Eyes for Breakfast to I Don’t Want Cassian to Know I’m Reading Smut. The latter was his particular favorite.

Fire in those words. Emerie would make the families take them, whether they wanted to or not. He’d seen that fire before—and the steel. He half wondered what might happen if the two of them ever met. What might come of it.

“And who the hell let Cassian and Feyre decorate?”

“You look like an angry snowball,” Cassian said.

“I like her because so few do. I like her because she is not easy to be around, or to understand.”

“You brought weapons to Solstice?”

Strange—so strange to see the Prince of Adriata here. In my town house. Smiling. Drinking my liquor. Until— “Do you even celebrate Solstice in the Summer Court?” Until Cassian decided to open his mouth.

“Do your worst, Cursebreaker.”

“They’re having a snowball fight.” Another nod. “Three Illyrian warriors,” I said. “The greatest Illyrian warriors. Are having a snowball fight.”

Azriel won. His one-hundred-ninety-ninth victory, apparently.

I handed Elain the small box with her name on it. Her smile faded as she opened it. “Enchanted gloves,” she read from the card. “That won’t tear or become too sweaty while gardening.” She set aside the box without looking at it for longer than a moment. And I wondered if she preferred to have torn and sweaty hands, if the dirt and cuts were proof of her labor. Her joy.

He wasn’t stupid enough to offer to carry her books.

He’d never met someone able to imply so much in so few words, in placing so much emphasis on you as to make it an outright insult.

And then I didn’t have the words for what happened.

Slowly, Tamlin’s head lifted, his unbound golden hair dull and matted. “Do you think she will forgive me?” The question was a rasp. As if he’d been screaming. I knew whom he meant. And I didn’t know. I didn’t know if her wishing him happiness was the same as forgiveness. If Feyre would ever want to offer that to him. Forgiveness could be a gift to both, but what he’d done … “Do you want her to?” His green eyes were empty. “Do I deserve it?” No. Never. He must have read it on my face, because he asked, “Do you forgive me—for your mother and sister?” “I don’t recall ever hearing an apology.” As if an apology would ever right it. As if an apology would ever cover the loss that still ate at me, the hole that remained where their bright, lovely lives had once glowed. “I don’t think one will make a difference, anyway,” Tamlin said, staring at the felled elk once more. “For either of you.” Broken. Utterly broken.