DARKHAVEN | "Three Sisters" Book One

Chapter Thirty-Five

Roslin

"Lady Adair." 

The sound of Jon's voice stirred Roslin from her thoughts. She turned to see his familiar figure silhouetted in both the blue glow of the night sky and the castle doors behind him. "Are you alright?"

Roslin, who was leaned in her usual spot at the terrace balustrade, smoothed her skirts and nodded. "I'm fine, thank you. I just needed some fresh air. I'm going back, don't worry about me."

Jon's eyes narrowed as if to determine whether she was telling the truth or not. "That stunt—don't let it ruin your night. If it does, I'll—"

But Roslin was already shaking her head. "Nothing could ruin this night," she assured him. "I've been dreaming about a night like this for..." She hesitated, realising how many years had come and gone. "...For a long time."

Jon reached out, his hand gently squeezing hers. I understand, said the ranger without saying anything at all. His thumb brushed over the back of her blue satin gloves. His eyes were sad; plainly, he knew all too well the weight of unfulfilled dreams, the ache of longing for something just out of reach.

He was a Lord's bastard condemned in his formative years for his father's transgressions, and she was...

Her past was a lot to swallow. It was easier to pick and choose.

"I will throttle him if you'd like," Jon offered in a bid to lighten the mood.

The would-be Princess threw back her head and laughed. "I don't remember that in the fairy tales." She paused, then added, "Well, maybe the way Blodwyn told them."

"I can only wish this life were a fairy tale for you, my lady."

"I spent my childhood reading fairy tales. I try to tell myself I'm living one, but I don't remember them being this complicated." She took her hand away from Jon's, then, and held her palms in front of her upturned. "Afferte," she murmured. White light pulsed above each palm. She brought them together slowly and combined the light, and when she pulled her hands apart again, the light took the shape of a book.

Jon squinted. "What is that...?" 

To show him, Roslin turned the book in her hands. It was an old book: the leather binding was cracked and the spine was frayed to the thread in places. Most of the paint had long since chipped from the cover. Enough of the title remained to still be discernible, though. "Fairy tales," he read. Then he looked up at her and smiled.

"I've kept it all these years," Roslin told him. When she opened the book, the faded, familiar illustrations were there like old friends who had been waiting for her to find them again. The pages may be yellowed with age, but they were them all the same. "It's all I have left of my childhood."

The commander chose his next words carefully. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing...?"

"It's...Something." The pages still held their same words, their same pictures, their same meanings. She looked down at it for a long time in silence. "I can still hear my parents reading it to me. It's funny—I keep thinking I'll forget them, their faces, their voices. This book is the only way I can remember my father's voice, but I remember it all the same."

His smile was kind. "They read to you from it? They raised you on story books?"

Roslin laughed a sad laugh. "They did. This was a fine book once, you know. My father bought it for me. He bought me lots of nice things," she admitted. "After he left, we sold much of it. My mother was blind by then and couldn't work, and I was young. But I got to keep this book."