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the quiet girls with stories in their heads. To their dreams—and their nightmares.
Get up, called the voice in my head. Get up, Elspeth.
fell again, blood seeping down my neck. They’re going to catch me, I cried, my mind lost to fear. They’re going to kill me. No one’s going to hurt you, child, he snarled. Now get
Still, it was the first time I stopped fearing the Nightmare—the voice in my head, the creature with strange yellow eyes and an eerie, smooth voice. Eleven years later, and I don’t fear him at all. Even if I should.
Everyone loved her. And she loved them back. Even to her own detriment. She didn’t pretend, Ione. She simply was. I envied her that. I was a spooked animal, so rarely calm. I needed Ione—her shield of warmth
had indeed caught the fever so feared in Blunder, but that was an end to it—the infection had not granted me magic.
For a time, I even found myself believing the lie—believing I had no magic.
My father kept irises in the house for a simple reason. Iris had been my mother’s name.
Your father is coming. So abrupt I jumped, the Nightmare’s voice slid from the darkness, moving directly behind my eyes—urgent. Can’t you see it?
was the velvet that gave off the light, a light only I could see. Or rather, a light only the creature in my mind could see.
Erik Spindle. Master of one of Blunder’s oldest houses. Tall, severe, fearsome. Most grievous of all, he had once been Captain of the very men called to hunt down those who carried magic—like myself.
screamed and fled the library. But there was no fleeing what I had done.
But the Nightmare’s reflexes were faster. Before the highwayman could free his blade from its sheath, I caught him by the wrist, my grip so tight my nails dug into his skin. “Don’t come here again,” I said, my voice not entirely my own.
My magic moves, he said. My magic bites. My magic soothes. My magic frights. You are young and not so bold. I am unflinching—five hundred years old.
I dont really like the little poems
My uncle sat, round and gray, as he always sat at the head of the table. But there was something strange about his eyes—something about his smile that I had not seen before. Something false.
Those who survived the fever often carried magical gifts like those the Spirit used to bestow, only more unruly—more dangerous.” When her voice shook, she’d held a hand to her throat. “But these children degenerated over time. Some grew twisted in their bodies, others in their minds. Few survived to adulthood.”
When he returned, he penned this,” she’d said, tapping The Old Book of Alders on her lap. “He wrote about the dangers of magic, and how to safeguard oneself in the mist with a charm.”
Written by the king
Or perhaps I would grow sick and, no matter how I tried to hide it, waste away to nothingness. Like my mother had.
He was aged, older than my father, grisly and stern. He bore the weight of his armor without wavering—his strength deeply rooted.
recognizing the sharp quality of his unnatural, feline yellow eyes—the
his place was a creature—more animal than man. Coarse black fur grew up the ridge of his back. He hunched over the desk, the long quality of his fingers making it impossible to tell where flesh ended and claw began. His tail, furred and long, whipped menacingly—like an angry cat’s—and his ears, pointed, twitched at me.
The Hawthorn tree carries few seeds. Its branches are weary, it’s lost all its leaves. Be wary the man who bargains and thieves. He’ll offer your soul to get what he needs.
Ok thanks dr suess
“They’re Destriers,” I bit back, more heat in my voice than I’d intended. “They’re trained to be violent, horrid men.”
“Emory Yew.” I choked on the wine lingering in the back of my throat. Across the table, my half sisters watched me with mirrored expressions of curiosity. They—like I—were no doubt wondering how I’d managed to be seated next to the King’s youngest nephew.
see a pretty maiden with long black hair and charcoal eyes. I see a yellow gaze narrowed by hate. I see darkness and shadow.” His lips twisted in an eerie smile. “And I see your fingers, long and pale, covered in blood.”
had come to corral his brother—despite being nowhere near the great hall that evening.
Burgundy—rich and blood red. The second Nightmare Card.
Wait, Elspeth Spindle, a deep voice called in my head. I’m not going to hurt you.
“How do you know there are Providence Cards in the garden?”
She is not very good at hiding her secret
consequences of overusing them. The Black Horse made its beholder a master of combat. The Golden Egg granted great wealth. The Prophet offered glimpses of the future. The White Eagle bestowed courage. The Maiden bequeathed great beauty. The Chalice turned liquid into truth serum. The Well gave clear sight to recognize one’s enemies. The Iron Gate offered blissful serenity, no matter the struggle. The Scythe gave its beholder the power to control others. The Mirror granted invisibility. The Nightmare allowed its user to speak into the minds of others. The Twin Alders had the power to commune
...more
The Nightmare revealed one’s deepest fears.
There must be touch, there must be intention.
“It’s the nice ones you should look out for,” Ravyn said. I glanced up at him. “What about you, Captain? Are you too nice for your own good?” He watched me, something I could not read flashing in his gray eyes. “No, Miss Spindle,” he said. “I’m not nice at all.”
“I present to you,” he called, “the elusive Nightmare Providence Card, and my future wife, Ione Hawthorn.”
Shut up and let me think. Isn’t it obvious? The Captain of the Destriers is a sneaking, contemptible traitor.
Because theking must have a plan he wants to thwart
“Emory told me about you last night,” he said. “He said there was a woman in the castle with black eyes and dark magic.” His smile did not touch his eyes. “The poor boy was too excited. He’s never met anyone else infected before. Anyone besides his brother, that
Ravyn Yew. Infected. Did you know? I gasped at the Nightmare. He purred, gratification dripping like hot wax off his voice. I had my suspicions.
The moment the Cards touched the Captain’s hand, the white color disappeared.
Im a wee bit confused
“Who’s the pretty lady?” Emory asked, peeling a twig off the rowan tree and plucking its leaves one by one. “Methinks she is a tree spirit. Nay—a King! Nay.” His smile twisted. “A villain.”
“But I don’t trust you, Captain. How could I trust a man who hasn’t been forthright with me?” The dance slowed, the final notes near. Ravyn’s hand
She hasnt told hum the truth either
twists and it calls, through shadowy halls. Be wary the voice that comes in the night.”
Will we always trust thenightmare?
Emory heaved, hunching his back, and coughed blood on the stone floor. Shame, the Nightmare said. I was just beginning to like him.
could. Better than most. Hadn’t I hidden my ability to absorb Providence Cards from Ravyn from the very start? Hadn’t I lied to his family and told them I could see Providence Cards when, in truth, the five-hundred-year-old monster in my head was doing that for me?
Exactly
my attempt to wound him, I had only injured myself. “That’s what I thought,” I snapped, slamming the door in the Captain of the Destriers’ face.
frowned, searching the wool. It felt like a forgotten dream, looking at the man with gilded armor. A reflection in water too murky to make out. The Nightmare paced behind my eyes, guarding himself with a heavy, resolute silence.
Hes the shepard king then
“The same thing everyone else says,” Morette replied. “That the Shepherd King took it into the mist one day and returned without it.”
The more I asked for his help, the more potent the Nightmare’s presence in my head became.
So why does she as him for help wjrhthe simplest thi gs
“You and I already carry strange magic. We’re the very things the book warns against, Miss Spindle.” He smiled, gesturing away from the house into the garden. “We needn’t be afraid of a little salt in the air.”
Go in where? My eyes caught on the ivy-laden room. There? Yes. Why? I want to see it. There is no door. Only— A window. His voice swarmed in my ears, near and far at once, slick with oil. That’s all she ever required. Who? The Spirit of the Wood. The hair at my spine prickled. You’ve been here before? He laughed. But there was no joy in it. It was an empty laugh, ominous—like falling down a well. Like being eaten by darkness. It stole something from me, leaving me terrified of the place—the doorless chamber—he so desperately wanted me to take him.
“Because when he speaks—relaying my worst fears over and over in my mind—it’s not a stranger’s voice,” he said quietly. “It’s mine.”
