Page 45 of Spar of Hearts

The kitchen! He perked up. He didn’t want Annette to wake up to that disaster. There was no explanation that didn’t embarrass himself or Anya.

He shot to his feet, teeming with new purpose.

True to his word, he placed Anya’s boots outside her cabin with the ring tied to the laces. He didn’t want her to worry about who helped her in case she didn’t remember, so he included a note that he hoped would make her smile.

The Princess had truly done a number on the poor kitchen. He started with the floors, sweeping the shattered dishes and mopping up puddles of ale, then turned his attention to the counters and picked up the sticky jam jar.

Blueberry.

He’d been hoping it was mulberry.

The mystery maiden’s sultry voice echoed in his head. Warm mulberry pie. Rose hip with nothing else.

He’d come across jarred mulberries when he inventoried the supplies. He’d put them in the back of the highest pantry, presuming them to be reserved for the deck feast, since they made an excellent glaze for roast pork.

Was it possible the blueberry jam had been a consolation prize after she’d failed to find the mulberries? She must have been the one to purchase them, and therefore knew they were somewhere in here. It explained why she’d been rifling through the cabinets like a squirrel. No. Not a squirrel. Something scarier than a squirrel, and much more beautiful.

He ran through the wolf-woman and Anya’s similarities in his head. Lycanian. Blonde hair. Hate shoes. Bergamot perfume.

It would also explain why she ran out when he divulged his name. But the thought didn’t make it hurt any less. Either way, he needed to know the truth.

He’d found his distraction. This would be a far more nuanced endeavor than any before. No battle. No blood.

Just baking.

How hard could it be?

Chapter 19

Anya Delemond

“Mother Moon,” Anya muttered, rubbing her temples. Ice picks beat against the inside of her skull as she sat up. Every muscle protested, each limb weighed down like a sack of sand.

There’s a first for everything, I suppose.

She’d never been hungover before. She could out drink most folk her size. Was that a bad batch of ale or something? Or had she simply drunk that damn much?

She forced her mind to work through the night prior. Breakfast. Yelling at Roderick. My ring getting warm.

The ring! She thrust her hand in front of her face, the only adornment her own claws, not a speck of gold in sight. She paled. Did I throw it overboard? She groaned. I have got to stop doing that. I can’t send all my problems out to sea.

Roderick. He was one of those problems. He’d—

Made a wise decision about the icebergs.

Without waking her.

She scanned the room. The usual blanketed mass that was Blackbird was flat and still. Her friend was probably in the captain’s quarters reading up on the old tomes of ancient Aquillan fauna. Her eye caught on a glimmer near the doorway. Her knees crackled as she stood, followed by a twinge in her back.

My boots? She hoisted them up by the laces. Her ring was tied in the middle, with a little scrap of parchment rolled up inside it. She slipped the ring on her finger, shoving the note out. She laid back down and pressed the note flat against the blanket.

Things You’ve Thrown:

Me

This ring

These boots