The western garden lies in worse condition than I imagined. Moon orchids, once the pride of Thornwall with their renowned capacity to repel shadow creatures, now dangle lifelessly from intricate trellises. Prince Thorne stands behind me, examining the damage with tightly controlled frustration obvious in the tense set of his shoulders.
"Can they be saved?" he says, his breath evident in the strangely cold air surrounding him.
After yesterday's discoveries in the greenhouse, I view him differently—not only as the frigid prince of rumors, but as someone perhaps stuck in a magical lineage he doesn't fully grasp. I kneel alongside a faded orchid, resting my hands gently on the soil around its roots.
"They're not dead yet," I assure him, feeling the faint pulses of dormant magic. "But they require more than just my care. These plants were meant to respond to balanced magic—both winter and spring working together."
He frowns. "Winter magic just hurts them further. I've tried."
"Perhaps not alone," I add, remembering Queen Rosa's journal. "Your grandmother's records indicated hybrid plants needed both types of magic applied simultaneously."
His eyes brighten at the mention of his grandmother. "What exactly did you find in that greenhouse?"
I hesitate, then decide to risk partial truth. "A record chronicling the primordial balance of magics that protected Thornwall. Winter and spring working in harmony generated greater defenses than either could alone."
"The spring magic bloodline died out generations ago," he adds, but hesitation clouds his voice.
"What if it didn't?" I ask quietly. "What if it was just... hidden?"
Before he can answer, I grab for a pot holding thornwall rose seedlings I've prepared. "These need replanting here, amongst the orchids. According to the traditional traditions, roses and orchids support each other."
He kneels alongside me, suspicion clear as I hand him a seedling. "Hold this while I prepare the soil."
As I dig a small hole, I peek at Thorne. His focus is totally on the delicate plant in his gloved hands. For all his reputation for coldness, there's unexpected gentleness in how he cradles the baby plant.
"Your Highness rarely gardens personally," I remark.
A flicker of a smile crosses his face. "My mother taught me before she died. Said a king should learn how to nurture things, not merely protect them."
Something rises in my chest with this glimpse of the man behind the crown. "She sounds wise."
"She was." His expression hardens once more. "She also died trying to restore these gardens fifteen years ago."
I pause in my digging. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be successful where she couldn't be." The remarks aren't nasty, just weighted with expectation.
"The hole's ready," I remark, changing the subject. "We'll need to place it carefully."
He provides the seedling, and as I reach for it, our ungloved fingertips brush momentarily. The encounter is like lightning—not painful but thrilling. Magic surges between us, sparking clearly where our skin connects. A shock wave of energy shoots outward, and around us, every plant shivers with unexpected vitality.
Withered orchid stems straighten. Browned leaves were bright green at their edges. The dormant thornwall seedling between our fingers sprouts new growth, little silver-tipped leaves unfurling before our eyes.
Thorne yanks his hand away as if scorched, looks at the plants, then at me. His silver eyes are wide with shock, frost crystals accumulating in his eyelashes.
"What was that?" he demands, but there's amazement behind the anxiety.
My heart pounds so hard I'm certain he can hear it. "Balance," I mutter, glancing at my tingling fingertips. "Winter and spring magic recognizing each other."
He steps back, his composure shattering. "That's not possible."
"You felt it too," I assert. "The plants responded to both of us together in ways they wouldn't to either alone."
Around us, the brief surge of vigor begins to wane, plants settling back but visibly enhanced from minutes ago. The seedling, however, continues to flourish, its roots already seeking the dirt in my palms.
Thorne stares at his palm. "This changes everything. If what you're stating is true—" "—then I have spring magic," I finish gently. "The lost bloodline."
"Or something like it." His face becomes unreadable again. "Plant the seedling. Then we need to speak with Balthren immediately."
I carefully set the seedling in its hole, covering its roots with earth that now seems to shimmer slightly. As I knead the earth surrounding it, I feel the garden responding to my touch more intensely than ever before, as if our mystical link has awakened something asleep in the ground itself.
"If I have spring magic," I continue warily, "and you have winter magic..."
"Then Lady Revira's theory that I'm the source of the blight is wrong," he finishes, standing quickly. "It's not the presence of winter magic causing the imbalance—it's the absence of spring magic to complement it."
I rise too, wiping soil from my hands. "Why would someone suppress the existence of spring magic bloodlines? Why let the kingdom suffer?"
His jaw tightens. "That's precisely what we need to discover. This knowledge is dangerous—Lady Revira would see it as further proof I'm unfit to rule if my magic requires... complementing."
"Or she'd see me as a threat," I say, comprehension dawning.
"Both, most likely." He glances about, suddenly alert to potential watchers. "Tell no one what occurred. Not even Elm."
"But the gardens—"
"Will wait another day," he interrupts. "Balthren first. He's the only one I trust with this."
As we walk toward the palace, I notice Thorne maintaining perfect spacing between us, cautious not to let even inadvertent contact happen again. My fingers still tingle where we touched, and I find myself stealing looks at his profile, seeing him again.
The chilly prince with winter in his veins. The man who might need my powers as much as I need his safety.
The notion sends a new kind of shiver through me, one that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the memories of his skin against mine.