She hooked his chin with her thumb, and though Ione Hawthorn was so cold in all her expressions, her touch warmed him. “Why?” she asked. “Why do you aim to be better?” “Because I have to be,” Elm said in one breath. “I care not what they say about me at court, even if it is that I’m a rotten Prince and a piss-poor Destrier.” He leaned closer. “But I do want it said, loud enough so everyone hears, that I am nothing like Hauth.”
