Page 141 of The Thornwyck Rose

Erik dropped his head, and David muttered something indecipherable.

“I thought perhaps . . . if you prayed hard enough . . . if David worded it just so . . . if we waited.” Erik smiled bitterly. “But the crown wants what it wants.”

David muttered, “This is the world we live in.”

Seren looked off toward the Welsh Marches. “I was raised for this,” she said, her voice soft, bending but not breaking. Her breath hitched. “Thank you for pleading on my behalf.”

Erik studied her every facial twitch and memorized the curves of her cheeks beneath her veil.

She forced a smile. “I suppose a mother shouldn’t have a better life than her daughters.” She twisted her face away. “I’ll be in the garden.” And with that, she walked off.

Erik looked at David, and he nodded, giving him unspoken permission to follow. Margot went after them.

He found Seren by the kingcups. Margot lingered at the foot of the aisle as Erik approached.

“You are free now, Erik. Henry is not here anymore. Take awife. No one will hurt her or your son, no one will make them suffer.”

His throat closed around his words, choking them and forcing them down back to his belly. He stepped into her space, covering her hand with his.

“Take a wife?” he asked, agony bleeding into his tone.

“It is clear. I will be the queen, and if I outlive him, any remarriage is subject to the church and politics.” Seren squeezed a kingcup in her hand. “Bless the cup that blooms in frost.” She fisted it tight in her hand until it broke from the branch and fell to the ground in a twisted heap. “Take a wife, Erik, and forget me. Though I will hold on to your kiss all of my days.”

He cupped her cheek, pulling her gaze to his. “There is still a small chance you could be my wife.”

“Marcher Lords already want the alliance that comes with my marriage. They are already betting on me outliving him. How do you compete with a Marcher Lord?”

Erik lowered his face to hers.

“If you outlive the king,” he whispered, “Then I will have made myself the advantage worth choosing.”

Her breath shuddered, rippling the black translucent fabric between them.

“I told you once I would not let you go so easily,” he said. “That is a vow, and it will not die with a crown.”

Her voice was barely audible. “You cannot wait forever.”

“I can,” he answered. “And I will.”

She searched his face as if trying to find the cost hidden beneath the promise. “Why would you deny yourself a wife? A future? A lawful household?”

“I lost this turn, so I will wait until your husband dies and try my hand again. But I cannot do that if I am bound to another in the eyes of the Church. So I will not marry, unless it is to you.”

The warm wet of tears soaked her mourning veil and ran into his thumbs pressed by her eyes.

She tried to turn her face away, but he followed, his hands steady, anchoring her where everything else had beenstripped away. Her lips were just beneath his as she said, “You will waste your life on hope, Erik.”

“No,” he said, lips brushing hers. “I will live for you.”

She accepted his kiss, his promise, his vow, though the veil was the ever-present reminder that time would never be on their side.

Her hands slid up his sides to his chest, his neck. Something smooth was in her hand, its cool surface pressed to his flesh. He covered her hand and pulled it to look—the wooden kingcup—the one he’d carved for her memory, for her love, for their friendship when he thought she’d rejected him.

She closed his fingers around it, sealing the oath.

“Then remember me,” she whispered. “Until God grants your request.”

Her mouth trembled. “For He no longer grants mine.”