The Castle Behind Thorns by Merrie Haskell

they still weren’t good.
    â€œI’d love a fresh apple, a fresh carrot, a fresh . . . anything,” he said.
    Perrotte nodded.
    â€œIs that why you won’t eat? Nothing fresh?” he asked.
    She frowned. “I don’t know. I’m just . . . not terribly hungry. I have more appetite today than I did yesterday. But . . .” She hesitated. “I hardly slept last night. Maybe an hour, if I were to judge from the stars.”
    That worried him too, but maybe that’s what happened when a person was recently deceased. He didn’t know.
    â€œThe thing is, we need to try to break through the hedge,” she said.
    Immediately, his scar came alive, a shooting ache through his wrist. He clutched it. Her acute eyes followed his gesture.
    â€œOne thorn,” he gasped, speaking against the tide of pain. “One thorn tried to kill me, and it does not want me to forget.”
    She shook her head, obstinate. “I’m not afraid.”
    â€œWell, I am. I’ve tried everything, Perrotte. I’ve tried digging under. I’ve tried burning them. They are . . .” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Smart? Evil? Determined?
    â€œIf you made me a pair of hedge shears, and I had, say, some armor—gauntlets, perhaps?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen I’ll just try it without your help. With a sword. With a broken sword.”
    â€œNo,” he said again, not because he believed he could talk her out of it, but because it was the right thing to say.
    â€œWe can talk about it,” Perrotte said. “For as long as you like. For days. For weeks. But I’ll get my way.”
    He was a little surprised that she hadn’t already tried to order him to help her, on the basis that he was a peasant and she was a lady. But since she didn’t . . . he was actually considering it.
    But still—no! It was too dangerous. She had no idea, she really did not!
    He had his mouth open to argue, when from the kitchen door a gentle thump interrupted him.
    Perrotte and Sand both froze, staring at each other.
    Thump. Thump, thump. A long pause, then: Thump.
    Wordlessly, Perrotte shot to her feet. She ran across the room and jerked open the door. She ducked just in time: a drenched falcon flew over her head, landed on the mantel, then started to preen its feathers.

14
    Heart
    â€œW HAT IN H EAVEN IS THAT ?” P ERROTTE ASKED, hands protectively braced over her head.
    â€œMerlin!” Sand exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
    Was Sand talking to the bird? “Sand! Are you listening to me?”
    Sand faced Perrotte with a smile of true joy, but when he opened his mouth, his eyes clouded. “I heard you,” he said. “It’s . . . well, it’s Merlin.”
    â€œA falcon. I can see that. I thought you said nothing lived here?”
    Sand’s face went blank. “There was nothing alive, except for me, until Merlin. And then you.”
    Perrotte bit back her exasperation, and said simply, “Go on.”
    He twined his blunt-tipped fingers together, staring down at them. “I, erm. I found the falcon in the mews.”
    â€œSo, it’s not true that there was nothing alive in the castle?”
    â€œThe truth is . . . Well, the truth is the truth, and thus worth telling, but sometimes truths are so complicated that it’s exhausting to get them out in the right order.” He glanced up at her.
    That sounded like an evasion if ever she’d heard one. She raised an eyebrow.
    â€œThe falcon was dead!” Sand blurted out. “Stuffed and mounted, and then also damaged in the sundering. I mended him, and put him on the mantel, so I’d have something to talk to. But a couple days before you—you came upstairs—” He gestured helplessly at the bird, who stopped stripping water from its feathers just long enough to glare at