“You should let Rowan fight his own darkness,” I say.
Florence sits down and leans her elbows against the table. She gives me a level look. “Whatever you’ve heard about Rowan—those stories—they aren’t true.”
“You mean hedidn’tmurder his whole family?”
Her mouth draws tight.
“He’s not cruel, Violeta,” Clover says quietly. “He wants to help your brother, not harm him. Yes, we need Arien’s magic for my spell, but in return I’ll teach him alchemy. Don’t you want him to learn?”
A lump rises in my throat. I look down at Arien’s fingers, stained dark from the shadows. The marks remind me ofwhen he was small and Mother gave us a scrap of dough to make into a tiny loaf of bread. I told Arien to watch the stove, then came back from the garden to find himwatchingit as smoke curled out from the drafts and the bread burned. We ate it anyway. Put honey over the blackened edges. It was sweet and wonderful.
That burned-black bread with drips of honey… Arien’s gentle hands casting dark magic… All this time I’ve wanted to keep him safe from the darkness. But now it seems that the only way for him to be—if not safe, then happy—is to call the shadows in rather than chase them away.
“I’m sorry.” I squeeze his hand. “I love you.”
His eyes shimmer in the firelight, filled with tears. “I love you too, Leta. And I know you’re worried about me, but I want to do this.” He draws himself up. “If I can learn how to use the shadows, how tocontrolthem, I won’t have to be afraid anymore. I want to learn how to be an alchemist.”
Tiredly, I bend down to unlace my boots. My dress is ruined, the hem torn from where I ripped it in the woods, the rest of the fabric filthy with blackened mud. I fold back my skirts and peel down my stockings. The cloths tied around my knees have dried stiff and dark. My hands shake as I unwrap them. The cuts look terrible. My skin is angry red beneath the crusted blood.
Clover draws in a sharp breath when she sees, and exchanges a horrified look with Florence.
“I could—” Clover eyes me nervously. “I could mend them for you.”
“Mend them?” I stare at her, confused.Mend.It’s the same word she used to describe what they’re trying to do with the Corruption. Strange to think that with magic, both the earth and my skin can be put back together like a torn sheet.
She goes into the stillroom beside the kitchen and comes back with a case made from pale wood. Deftly, she flips it open. There’s a proud gleam in her eyes as she shows me the contents. The case is divided into compartments, treasures nestled inside each one. Rows of tiny stoppered jars, polished stones, a bundle of slender beeswax candles. Folded papers, a pearl-handled pen, a bottle of bright blue ink.
Arien peers at the case, eager and curious. His face reminds me of the way I’d feel in Greymere when I saw jars of sweets in the store window.
“Will you let her?” He looks up at me, teeth pressed into his lip.
This moment feels like a chance. A way for me to tell Arien all the things I can’t find words for.I’m sorry. I was afraid of your shadows—your magic—but never you.I nod slowly. “You can mend me.”
Clover crouches down on the floor. “I have to touch your skin to check what I’ll need for the spell,” she says softly. “May I?”
I nod again. She puts her hands against my knees. Closes her eyes. Then she sits back and touches her fingers together as she counts under her breath, like she’s calculating a sum. “It will leave scars as payment.”
I don’t quite understand what she means. But she’s gentle as she wets a cloth and washes away the blood. It stings. She takes a small jar from her case, filled with sweet-smelling salve, and wipes it over the cuts. With her pen she sketches a quick symbol on her wrist. Then she leans closer, her eyes focused with concentration. I watch, fascinated, as they change color. Not black like Arien’s but pale gold. Her skin is hot when she puts her palms flat against my knees.
I wince at her touch, and my eyes scrunch closed.
A press, a whisper. My skin tingling warm. And then I am mended.
I open one eye slowly, then the other.
“What’s the matter?” Clover raises a brow. “Worried I’d turn you into a frog?”
“Of course not.”
She shows me her hand. On her open palm, like an offering, are tiny pieces of glass. They were still there, buried under my skin. The cuts bled as my body tried to heal around those hidden shards. I get up and take them from her. I open the stove and flick the pieces of glass into the coals.
Florence comes over to stand beside me and hesitantly puts her hand on my shoulder. I remember how Rowan turned away from her at the wayside. Maybe each time she reaches out, she expects to be refused. But I let her touch me. I let her comb her fingers gently through my hair.
“I’m glad you decided to stay, Violeta.”
Her fingers work carefully, unfurling knots into curls. Hertouch, the firelight, the way the kitchen smells of stove ash and burned sugar—it pulls at me. For just a moment I could almost feel safe. But no amount of kindness will take away the reality of what lies outside, beyond the house.
Because the lake is there. Waiting and wanting.
