were lovers?” Hotspur asked. She’d suspected but not known.
“We were.”
“So you think … it’s all right to have another knight for a … lover?”
“Of course. Better a knight than a footman or attendant, or someone with so much less power that neither can find comfort. Are you looking for a lover? You’re nineteen?”
“Just,” she whispered.
“A merchant’s son, perhaps, or one of the queen’s many cousins. Though you ought to take care with fellow nobility—marriage will always be a consideration. And get yourself prophylactics. You can have a lover when you’re a lady knight, but not a baby.”
Hotspur bit her lip, thinking about that kiss. If she got what she was nearly certain she wanted, she wouldn’t need to worry about quite a few things.
“But you said another knight.” Banna Mora moved closer, taking her mentoring role very seriously. “Is there one who’s caught your eye? I haven’t noticed you … oh.”
Hotspur’s freckled cheeks blushed, and she inadvertently fluttered her eyes as she looked away.
“Did Hal proposition you?” Mora demanded, but gently. “She flirts with fence posts, you know.”
“It is wrong?” Hotspur burst out.
“Does it feel wrong?”
Squirming, Hotspur said, “Maybe we should fight again.”
Mora agreed, but as they took their stances, she said, “Hotspur … Isarna. It’s only wrong if it feels wrong. Or if Hal pushes you where you would not go.”
Hotspur wrinkled her nose and shook her head in denial; as if anyone could make her do a thing she did not want to do. She attacked suddenly, and after a flurry of back and forth, locked her sword with Mora’s and said, “Don’t call me Isarna out of tenderness.”
With a laugh, Mora freed herself and pressed her advantage.
That night, near midnight, Hal gently shook Hotspur awake, leaning close to whisper in her ear, “Don’t make a sound, and come with me.”
Though exhausted from the calisthenics she had put herself through before bed, hoping to sleep hard—which Hotspur had been, or Hal never would’ve slipped unnoticed into her room—she silently pulled on jacket and trousers and boots and followed Hal through the corridors of the keep.
“Where are we going?” she whispered once they were outside.
Hal smiled, and in the moonlight her eyes were vivid black pools against her white skin. “Shhh!”
The prince led the knight across the midnight courtyard and into the trees. They walked along a deer path cutting narrowly through the underbrush. When they were what Hal deemed sufficiently distant from the keep, she said, “We are going to find the witch tree.”
Hotspur nearly laughed. It was a ridiculous mission, but this was the first time Hal had chosen Hotspur for antics. Thin moonlight flickered as they passed under leaves. Shadows pulled in blurry shapes all around, frogs sang, and crickets, too. She and Hal moved quietly, though their shoulders brushed young trees with little whispers, and spring-green blackberry brambles snapped back.
“Listen for her heartbeat,” Hal said, pausing suddenly. She was taller, and bent her head toward Hotspur’s so her loose black hair fell like shadows around her face. “Remember?”
“I do,” Hotspur whispered, though it was her own heartbeat she could hear.
Hal touched a finger to Hotspur’s collar where the skin was exposed. “Buh-dum, buh-dum, buh-dum.”
Hotspur swatted her hand away. “I said I remember.”
“It’s said,” Hal said merrily, walking on, but with a glance back over her shoulder so Hotspur could see the flash of a smile, “that if two people meet under a witch tree, when the moon is high, their promises will last forever.”
It was a half-moon tonight, only just risen, sending oblong streaks through the trees.
Hotspur reached forward and brushed her fingers against the nape of Hal’s neck. The tips of her fingers tingled, and Hotspur drew a long, quiet breath.
They said no more, but their movements became part of the midnight forest, the rhythm of it all, and Hotspur wished to stop Hal and touch her again.
Some two miles from the keep, they walked out of the trees onto the bank of the Whiteglass River.
“Oops,” Hal said. “I guess I was listening to the gall of the river, not the heart of a witch tree.”
Hotspur laughed. Loudly. This was exactly where Hal had intended to bring her. The river rushed, catching moonlight and pulling it into the water with little reflecting ripples. Against the rocky bank, tiny whitecaps sloshed. They were south of where the royal road bent away from the Whiteglass.
“Hotspur,” said Hal. She took both of Hotspur’s hands, pulling their bodies flush together.