Wynter brushed his wife’s tears from her lashes. She could not be the traitor Valik suspected. No one could be so convincing. He’d been blind to Elka’s perfidy because he loved and trusted her. But Khamsin was and had always been the daughter of an enemy king. She’d deliberately deceived him into wedding her when he thought he was marrying her sister. He wasn’t blinded by love or trust this time. And when she said she’d come here because she wanted to know what it was to belong to a family—a loving family—he believed her.

He rolled off her and got to his feet, pulling her up with him. He took a few minutes to help her rearrange her clothing and draped his furred vest around her shoulders.

“I made this place for my brother,” he admitted. “He was only five when the Frost Giant killed our parents. I didn’t want him to grow up not knowing who they were or how much they loved him. It started as just a single sculpture of our parents, but Garrick liked it so much I made more.”

He had succeeded in surprising her. “You made this place? You’re the sculptor?”

He shrugged. “Ice carving is something of a national pastime in Wintercraig. I started when I was very young and got fairly good at it.”

“Fairly? Wynter, there are famed artists in the Summer Court who couldn’t match what you’ve created here.”

He flushed a little at her praise, then corrected her misconception that he alone was responsible for the Atrium’s sculptures. “They aren’t all mine. Garrick did his own carving when he was old enough. It was something the two of us did together.”

She gazed around the crystalline world of ice and snow. “Would you . . . tell me about them? Your family?”

A hand squeezed his heart, and Wynter found himself wishing Verdan Coruscate was standing here before him now, so he could choke the life out of him.

He was careful to keep his voice calm as he said, “It would be my pleasure, min ros.”

He walked his wife through the numerous trails of the extensive ice forest that he and his brother had created, pausing often to point out a particular piece, or tell her about the memory that had inspired a particular scene. He’d brought Elka here once. She’d admired the beauty of the place, the skill of his and Garrick’s sculpting, but she’d never felt the love. She’d never drunk in the memories with eyes that shone like silver moons, or paused so often to laugh over funny little details. Nor had she ever come here on her own to enjoy what he and Garrick had spent so many years sculpting. But Khamsin’s enthusiasm and her obvious appreciation for their work was too honest, too compelling, to be false.

What would Garrick have said about Wynter’s Summerlander queen?

Khamsin stopped by a sculpture of his laughing father holding an infant Garrick over his head. Young Wynter and his mother were holding hands nearby, dancing in the grass.

“Tell me about this day,” she begged. “What was it like? You all look so happy.”

Garrick would have liked her, Wynter decided. He would have liked her very much.

CHAPTER 18

A Surfeit of Snow

The next morning, as Wynter sat in his office reviewing the documents that had stacked up in his absence, it occurred to him that he’d never gotten either the long soak in a steaming tub nor the night of undisturbed sleep he’d been looking forward to. The soak had been shared and short-lived, with most of the steaming water ending up on the floor of his bathing chamber before it had time to cool. And his sleep—what little he’d gotten—had been in Khamsin’s bed rather than his own.

He should have been exhausted today. Instead, he felt more invigorated than he had in months. The few hours he had slept, with Khamsin draped over him, had been deep and dreamless and utterly restorative. Despite a second bath they’d shared again this morning, he could still smell her on his skin, and the scent kept distracting him as he attempted to plow his way through the mountain of papers awaiting his review.

The fifth time his mind went wandering while attempting to read the same single paragraph in a report, Wyn gave up. The paperwork would have to wait. He pushed back from his desk and summoned Deervyn Fjall. After explaining what he wanted and sending Fjall to see it done, Wynter went in search of his wife. He found his Summerlass in the grand dining room with Lady Melle Firkin and a dozen ladies of the court.

Wyn paused just outside the doors to observe them. Though the ladies were sitting scant feet away from his wife, there was an invisible but distinct gulf between them. The ladies chatted amongst themselves, never addressing Khamsin except when prodded into conversation by Lady Melle, and even then their voices were cold and clipped. Khamsin’s lovely, expressive face was drawn in a blank mask, all her bright vitality and passion tamped down and hidden away, leaving a lifeless, wooden caricature of Wyn’s wild summer Rose. The sight made his hands clench, and he had to wrestle his temper and his magic into submission before he stepped into the room.

“Your Grace!” The gathered ladies jumped to their feet and dropped into swift but graceful curtsies.

“Your Grace.” Khamsin executed her own, much slower but equally graceful curtsy. “I wasn’t expecting the pleasure of your company this morning.”

“Were you not?” He bent down and dropped a kiss upon her upturned lips, aware of the ladies watching with avid interest and no small surprise. “I spent the better part of the last two months staying away until you were fully recovered from your illness. I am resolved to make up for lost time. I thought we might go for a ride.”