Chapter 37

I t was a simple thing—knowing Aria really had met his father, that she remembered him—and it should not have truly mattered.

But it did.

Baron cleared his throat, trying to remove the emotion, but it remained lodged.

"You would have been with him, right?" Aria gave a quiet puff of air that sounded embarrassed. "I'm sorry I don't remember you."

"That would have been the year I first went to Fairfax, so no. And I'm sorry to have missed your birthday."

"Oh, all you missed was a scandal. My most public and humiliating."

Baron's eyebrows shot up. "Do tell."

She groaned. "Your father shook my hand, and he said my name was ‘a wonderful break from tradition.' I see now he must have meant it earnestly, considering your name, but I'd had a bad morning. My parents had been ... fighting." She shook her head. "Anyway, the lady behind your father in line leaned forward to add, ‘The princess is as lovely to the eyes as her namesake is to the ears.' All wonderful things. Truly, everyone treated me wonderfully."

After an extended pause, Baron prompted, "And then?"

"My mother loves music, you understand, and her talent crosses two countries. The arias she composes are sung both here and in Patriamere."

Her voice had grown strangled, so even though Baron burned with curiosity, he did the respectable thing and said, "You don't have to speak of it if—"

"Out loud, very loudly, I told the entire court, ‘Mother named me after the only thing she's ever loved.'"

"Ah," Baron said, wincing on her behalf.

"I never even apologized. We all just stood there awkwardly, and then the line continued, everyone pretending it hadn't happened. But I heard everyone whispering the rest of the evening."

Baron gave a sympathetic smile. "If I attempted to count the number of times I've regretted words to my father, it would be a quick path to unhappiness. We all have bad days. We all say things we don't mean, or mean only for the moment it takes to say them." He waved his hand. "Look at the twins. They would die for each other, but you wouldn't know it by the insults."

"That's understandable," Aria said. "They're ..."

Baron watched her silhouette against the stars. She'd curled in on herself.

"Not you?" he prompted.

She looked away.

After another moment, Baron tugged at the reins, pulling Einar to a stop. He dismounted, then reached up to offer Aria a hand.

"Walk with me?"

Once she was on the ground, he gathered the reins for both horses in one hand. The other he kept wrapped around hers. They both wore gloves against the cold, but his heart raced all the same. She was near enough he could make out her features, the soft curve of her neck, the opposing curve of her cheek, the vulnerable prick of stars in her eyes when she looked up at him.

Softly, he said, "You very often criticize yourself. I noticed it early in your letters—apologies for questions, calling it unfortunate I had to suffer your conversation. You seem to think every normal behavior a misstep, but only for your own feet."

She'd urged him not to respond to her letter, and Baron had told himself to view the situation with logic, with a lifelong perspective rather than the rush of the moment. But stepping closer to her, all he felt was a rush. He released her hand and gently cupped her face.

"Aria, I have never seen you hold anyone else to this rigid standard. Why should the rest of us be exempt while you are condemned?"

She pressed her fingers to his, leaning into his hand like it was the only steady shore in a growing tide.

"I'm the future queen," she said. Her voice was so quiet, he strained to hear it. "I must be perfect , because any mistake I make could doom the entire kingdom."

Baron recognized a little of that same burden. He'd seen it in the worried lines of his father's face as the man cared for a hamlet. He'd felt it himself while fretting that he only caused danger for his brothers.

And Corvin had pecked him on the head for it.

Since her eyes had fallen, Baron tilted her head gently upward, lifting her gaze.

"If perfection is measured in caring," he said, "then you are perfect already. If it's measured by any other standard, then it has no purpose. If it damages you , then it is something to be avoided as far as I'm concerned."

She stared up at him, a swirl of starlight in her dark eyes. He found himself wishing he could trace every line of her face—smooth the worried furrow of her brow, feel the softness of her cheek. Before the joust, he'd held her bare fingers in his for the briefest moment, and the memory of it lingered with him still. His hands felt too warm within his gloves.

Unable to resist, he stroked his thumb across her cheek, and he thought he saw her shiver. She'd said she loved him. Could that really be true?

If he removed his gloves, would she shy away from the danger, or would she lean further into his hand?

"For years," Aria admitted, "I've kept track of every mistake. I write a mark for it in my mind. I know it's foolish. I know I'm not even marking the right mistakes sometimes. Exaggerating some, blind to others. I want to stop ... but I don't know how."

The corner of Baron's lips twisted wryly. "It seems there are marks on both of us, of a different kind, but damaging all the same."

"How do you ..." She drew in a shaky breath. "How do you walk forward knowing you'll get it wrong? How do you forgive yourself for that?"

"Me personally? I watch the twins, and I remind myself I'm at least not shoving family into walls."

As he'd hoped, she gave a tiny burst of laughter. Her lips remained parted, and with effort, he kept his focus on her eyes.

"We all get it wrong," he said, voice softening, "so perhaps the answer is simply mercy. Mercy for others, and mercy for ourselves. Besides that, walking forward is an ongoing path that doesn't end at a mistake. There's time to mend what can be mended, to improve at the next opportunity. You're strong enough for that; I've witnessed it.

"Tell me this—if I presented to the king tomorrow, if I stood again in the throne room and did everything the same, would you say anything differently?"

"Yes," she whispered without hesitation. "I'd argue for your place in court."

His heart lifted in his chest, drawing him forward, and he leaned in ever so slightly, captured by her warmth in the dark.

"But I know you now," she protested. "It isn't an improvement in myself, it's simply—"

"It feels like mercy to me."

She gripped his hand. Lashes fluttering, her gaze dropped to his lips, then rose again, the question as easy to read as any penned in a letter. Everything within him begged to answer.

Except one hesitation.

And what of her curse? his traitorous mind demanded. Can you save her?

With the wintry dark pressing all around him, bringing the even darker whisper of memories, Baron found his magic shrinking within himself, paralyzed.

For all his talk of mercy and moving forward, there was still one mistake he couldn't forgive himself for.

Slowly, he stepped back, lowering his hand. Aria gave a disappointed sigh that he pretended not to hear. For a while, they walked in silence, and then they remounted, continuing on the path ahead.

Just before dawn, they reached the northern side of Stonewall. Baron would have loved to show Aria his favorite parts of the city, to share breakfast at the bakery, but as it was, they took a small path around the city, curving to follow the thick wall until they reached the southern end and rejoined the main road.

The breaking day spread yellow across the sky, staining the clouds like ripening lemons. Herdsmen and their flocks spilled across the hills, one man drawing close enough to the road to gape at Aria's golden tiara. She gave a regal wave. Baron nudged his horse closer to hers.

It was only an hour's ride from Stonewall to the Reeves estate, but the more the sun rose, the lower Aria drooped in her saddle. When she slipped to the side, threatening to fall, Baron halted them both. He climbed down and fastened his horse's reins to her back saddle strap.

"I'm fine," Aria assured him, embarrassment clear in the color of her face.

"And here I thought you were cursed," he said gently. "May I?"

She scooted forward, and he hoisted himself up behind her.

"Besides," he added. "Einar has made the journey twice, so he deserves the reprieve."

After he settled, she leaned back, nestling against his chest and filling his senses with her lilac perfume, like the first breath of spring. He had to crane his neck to see around her, but he would have gladly ridden blind just for the comfort of her in his arms, a selfish impulse. Spending an entire day near her while warring within himself was going to undo him.

She'd pulled her cloak free so he wouldn't sit on it, draping it as a blanket instead, and her breathing quickly deepened beneath the rhythm of riding.

"You named your stallion Einar," she murmured.

"I'm rather predictable."

"It's clever. He's dappled gray, like the cloak ..."

As her head relaxed against his shoulder, her voice trailed into sleep. Baron smiled. Dappled like the cloak Einar wore to fool the first herald of heaven. No one had made that connection before—even Silas assumed it was a token name.

Baron held her a little tighter.