A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 48

In her gloved fist, Gwyn glanced down at the note Nesta had given her. A hint, Nesta had informed her.

Azriel, who had winnowed them into the city center, quietly chuckled at their antics. "Have fun, Berdara," he said as he lightly kissed her temple. The shadowsinger left them to their own devices after his gentle reminder to stay safe.

After he was out of sight, both sisters' perfectly innocent grins twisted into sneaky smirks.

Gwyn skimmed the paper again, considering. In an elegant script, Theo wrote his love letter to Amara at the place where he fell in love with her.

"Come on, Berdara," Nesta said, scrubbing, blowing into her knit-covered palms. "Because of your...morning, we're late and we don't have all day."

"I'm insulted that you didn't get this in a second with the volume of filth you've read, Gwyn," Emerie teased. "Perhaps we underrated the great mind—"

Parchment crinkled as Gwyn crumpled up the offending scrap of paper at the suggestion. That her mind was slow or to challenge her inability to solve the puzzle. She jammed the paper into the pocket of her gray winter coat, straightened her cobalt woolen hat, and simply answered, "The park. Theo found Amara playing in the snow and offered her his cloak. Chapter twenty-six of Every Winter Hereafter."

Nesta snorted, tucking her arm into the crook of Gwyn's elbow. On the redheaded Valkyrie's other side, Emerie followed suit. "Then let's go."

As a unit, they moved through the city. The Valkyries. Sisters. Fearless. Unrelenting. Looking forward to the day and the year to come.

𝄋

A wild shriek broke from her as she reeled around, chucking a ball at Emerie as snow pelted her shoulder.

"This was a brilliant idea," Gwyn chuckled, crouching to pick up another ball of snow. "Why should the boys have all the fun?"

"A new tradition," Emerie yelled before wet sleet struck her face. Sputtering and wiping her face, she howled. "Damn you, Nesta!"

Nesta's laugh was tinged with a sardonic glee that could have grown only from Lady Death.

"You're out, Em. It's just down to me and the birthday girl," the eldest Archeron crooned from behind her tree barrier.

Gwyn didn't bother to answer her friend. No. She knew Nesta too well. If she responded, Gwyn would reveal the current position she'd crept to, nicely tucked away behind three full boxwood hedges.

Taking off her hat, she quietly gathered an arsenal of snowballs.

"Who ended up creating the snowstorm?" Emerie asked Nesta, either as a diversion or sheer curiosity.

That was an excellent question. True, the Night Court was in the thick of winter. The climate of Velaris, however, was generally milder than the Illyrian mountains and the Winter Court.

"I asked Feyre," Nesta revealed, and Gwyn tried to gauge if her voice was closer. "She used her magic and collected some water from the Sidra. Let it fall and chill. During the day it grew warm enough to give us snow."

Tears welled in Gwyn's eyes as she thought of Feyre, the High Lady for Mother's sake, wanting to do something like this—for a simple ex-priestess's birthday.

Caught off-guard by emotion, Gwyn didn't pick up the crunching footsteps until it was too late. Her body twisted to the side in time to dodge the snowball aimed for her head. She stayed low, ducking, missing another throw as she dashed into a grouping of trees.