A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses #1) by Sarah J. Maas

Rhysand stared at me for long enough that I faced him. “Be glad of your human heart, Feyre. Pity those who don’t feel anything at all.”

I couldn’t explain about the hole that had already formed in my soul—didn’t want to, so I just nodded.

“Well, good-bye for now,” he said, rolling his neck as if we hadn’t been talking about anything important at all. He bowed at the waist, those wings vanishing entirely, and had begun to fade into the nearest shadow when he went rigid.

His eyes locked on mine, wide and wild, and his nostrils flared. Shock—pure shock flashed across his features at whatever he saw on my face, and he stumbled back a step. Actually stumbled.

“What is—” I began.

He disappeared—simply disappeared, not a shadow in sight—into the crisp air.



Tamlin and I left the way I’d come in—through that narrow cave in the belly of the mountain. Before departing, the High Fae of several courts destroyed and then sealed Amarantha’s court Under the Mountain. We were the last to leave, and with a wave of Tamlin’s arm, the entrance to the court crumbled behind us.

I still didn’t have the words to ask what they’d done with those two faeries. Maybe someday, maybe soon, I would ask who they were, what their names had been. Amarantha’s body, I’d heard, had been hauled off to be burned—though Jurian’s bone and eye were somehow missing. As much as I wanted to hate her, as much as I wished I could have spat on her burning body … I understood what had driven her—a very small part of her, but I understood it.

Tamlin gripped my hand as we strode through the darkness. Neither of us said anything when a glimmer of sunlight appeared, staining the damp cave walls with a silvery sheen, but our steps quickened as the sunlight grew brighter and the cave warmer, and then both of us emerged onto the spring-green grass that covered the bumps and hollows of his lands. Our lands.

The breeze, the scent of wildflowers hit me, and despite the hole in my chest, the stain on my soul, I couldn’t stop the smile that spread as we mounted a steep hill. My faerie legs were far stronger than my human ones, and when we reached the top of the knoll, I wasn’t nearly as winded as I might once have been. But the breath was knocked from my chest when I beheld the rose-covered manor.

Home.

In all my imaginings in Amarantha’s dungeons, I’d never allowed myself to think of this moment—never allowed myself to dream that outrageously. But I’d made it—I’d brought us both home.

I squeezed his hand as we gazed down at the manor, with its stables and gardens, two sets of childish laughter—true, free laughter—coming from somewhere inside its grounds. A moment later, two small, shining figures darted into the field beyond the garden, shrieking as they were chased by a taller, chuckling figure—Alis and her boys. Safe and out of hiding at last.

Tamlin slipped an arm around my shoulders, tucking me close to him as he rested his cheek on my head. My lips trembled, and I wrapped my arm around his waist.

We stood atop the hill in silence, until the setting sun gilded the house and the hills and the world and Lucien called us to dinner.

I stepped out of Tamlin’s arms and kissed him softly. Tomorrow—there would be tomorrow, and an eternity, to face what I had done, to face what I shredded into pieces inside myself while Under the Mountain. But for now … for today …

“Let’s go home,” I said, and took his hand.





Acknowledgments


To be honest, I’m not quite sure where to begin these acknowledgments, because this book exists thanks to so many people working on it over so many years. My eternal gratitude and love to:

Susan Dennard, my jaeger copilot and Threadsister, the Leonardo to my Raphael, the Gus to my Shawn, the Blake to my Adam, the Scott to my Stiles, the Aragorn to my Legolas, the Iseult to my Safi, the Schmidt to my Jenko, the Senneth to my Kira, the Elsa to my Anna, the Sailor Jupiter (or Luna!) to my Sailor Moon, the Moss to my Roy, the Martin to my Sean, the Alan Grant to my Ian Malcolm, the Brennan to my Dale, and the Esqueleto to my Nacho: I literally don’t know what I’d do without you. Or our inside jokes. Our friendship is the definition of Epic—and I’m pretty sure it was written in the stars. (Like a thousand years before the dinosaurs. It’s the prophecy.) See also: Imhotep, Tiny Cups For Tiny Hands, Ohhhh you do??, Cryssals, Henry Cavill, Sam Heughan, Claaaassic Peg, and everything ever from Nacho Libre. Sarusan Forever.

To Alex Bracken, who was one of the first friends I made in this industry, and remains one of my best friends to this day. There are moments when it still feels like we’re fresh out of college with our first book deals, wondering what is next for us—I’m so happy that we’ve gotten to share this insane journey with each other. Thank you for all the amazing feedback, the multiple reads (on this book and so many others), and always, always, having my back. I can’t tell you how much that means to me. Thanks for believing in this story for so many years.

To Biljana Likic, who read this pretty much as I wrote it chapter by chapter, helped me write all those riddles and limericks, and made me believe this story might not actually sit in a drawer for the rest of my life. So proud to now see you kicking ass and taking names, dude.

To my agent, Tamar Rydzinski, who took a chance on an unpublished twenty-two-year-old writer and changed my life forever with one phone call. You are a supreme badass. Thank you for everything.