The Tears of the Rose Read Online Free PDF

Avonlidgh’s way, to etch the names or sigils of the dead on their graves. The dead are gone, once more faceless and returned to Glorianna’s arms.
    Or to Moranu or Danu, if you belonged to Them. But High King Uorsin had declared Glorianna ascendant, a practice Avonlidgh had long embraced—if only to pacify their conqueror. Hugh hadn’t much cared either way, except that he always said that I could be Glorianna incarnate, in all Her delicate radiance. When I scolded him for the blasphemy, he’d kiss and tickle me until I couldn’t draw breath.
    He wasn’t the first to call me Glorianna’s avatar, but I loved it from him best.
    â€œYou may lay the wreath, Princess.” Kir’s reminder, followed by a cough, yanked me back to the frozen present, making me realize this wasn’t the first time he’d said it. The assistant shifted restlessly and I caught that eerie flash of green-apple eyes, glimmering with hatred.
    Hastily I looked away, down at the lushly pink roses. Surely I had imagined that, too.
    â€œI need some time alone.” My voice sounded frail. Not the High King’s daughter, future Queen of Avonlidgh. I laid my finger against a rose thorn, pressing so it pained me. Tried again. “Leave me.”
    â€œPrincess, the caravan—”
    I stood, fixing High Priest Kir with my best imitation of Ursula’s stern expression. “The caravan can wait. I highly doubt Her Highness will leave without me.” I should be so lucky.
    They both bowed with perfect manners and backed their way out—far better than Dafne had done. The assistant seemed so quiet and respectful that I wondered if I’d imagined that look in his eye.
    Then I was alone with Hugh, alone for the first time since he’d left our bed that last morning, kissing me sweetly and promising to rescue my sister. Had it been that night that I’d conceived? He’d been so passionate and tender. We’d made love three times—a first—because he’d wanted to make sure I wouldn’t miss him too much.
    Oh, how I missed him.
    I set the wreath before the crypt, as I was meant to, then—tentatively—touched the stones walling him in. My fingertips found the mortar, as I’d imagined them doing so many nights, digging in so it bit into me, a sick ache where I’d pricked myself with the thorn.
    â€œHugh?” My whisper echoed like the voices of ghosts. “I’m saying good-bye for a little while. I must travel, but I’ll be back. Your child—do you know about our babe? I’ll make sure to have my lie-in here, at Windroven, as you would have wanted. I promise you that.”
    My voice hitched, choked with the tears that couldn’t escape. For the first time, the babe seemed real to me. Would this child also be entombed here someday? It seemed so much easier to envision that eventuality, rather than a living child. I put a hand over my belly, more settled now, and kept the other on the stones, clinging to them. I imagined Hugh on the other side, perhaps also leaning his cheek against the wall, pressing his palm to mine. Death didn’t separate us—only this barrier. That was all.
    â€œI think of you every minute.” The ice on the stones melted beneath my cheek, almost like the feel of the tears I longed for. “This shouldn’t have happened. I don’t understand how it did. I don’t know what to do.”
    I closed my eyes, seeing his handsome face again. “You said you’d love me forever, and now”—my voice cracked—“I’m nothing. How could you leave me?”
    â€œPrincess Amelia?”
    I knew that voice. Dafne, likely playing Ursula’s messenger girl. How much had she eavesdropped? I refused to open my eyes.
    â€œGo away.”
    â€œI can’t, but I’ll wait back here.”
    I pried open an eyelid to see she stood as far away as possible. The strange echoes of the