With my face cupped by his scarred, rough palms, I can think of countless foolish things I want to do. In the end, I do the most terrible of them all. I lie.
“I won’t. I promise.”
Chapter Seventeen
In the garden, everything has gone to seed and flower. The stems of plants are crisped to air-light dryness. I move through the tangled orchard, a basket in my arms.
Trees and brambles make a screen behind me as I follow the path, and soon I’m alone. It’s quiet, with no sound except for my footsteps crunching over the gravel, then soft over bare earth.
At the very end of the path, the leafless, skeletal remains of two trees weave together into a bower, perhaps the tree house where Elan once daydreamed he and Rowan would live. I duck beneath the arch of branches. Inside, it’s cooler, and the latticework of wood shades me from the early sun. I sit down on the ground, the dry earth covered by a scatter of grass and twigs, and curl my hands around the nearest trunk.
I reach for my power, trying to picture the magic coiled in my chest and strung across my skin. It’s still a fight to drawit out. It feels as though I’ve put my hands into a dense fog to search for a single tiny seed. It slips and slips and slips, always just past my outstretched fingers. A metallic taste fills my mouth, and sweat streaks my temples.
I remember my father in our garden, the sparks of his magic over stems and leaves and flowers. I try to let that same bright warmth bloom from my own fingers.
I open my eyes to a world blotched white, with spots of color that dance and shift as I try to steady myself. I wipe the sweat from my face.
My power is still faint, but it was enough. For this, it was enough.
The bower above me is now verdant with delicate leaves. The branches hang low, heavy with fruit: round, ripe pomegranates. I reach for one large enough to fill my cupped palms and trace my fingers over the smooth, taut surface. When I tap the crimson-colored skin, a hollow softness resounds from inside.
I put the pomegranate gently into my basket, then reach for another. One by one, each fruit I’ve picked marks a beat of time. The morning sun tracks slowly across the sky. A sharp, needle-fine twig scrapes against the inside of my wrist. I rub my fingers against the welt and think of the promise I made to Rowan in the darkness.I’ll fix this.
We spent the whole night together, curled up into a crescent. His arm around my waist, his breath against my cheek. I slipped from his room early while all the house was still asleep and went back to my room to change. I put on a new lace dressand pinned up my hair, and then, before I came here, I looked in on Arien.
He was in bed, sleeping fitfully, his wounded arms tucked close against him. With his eyes closed he looked small and young and soft. And whatever hesitation I’d had until then about my plan, it was all gone in that moment.
Back inside, I tiptoe through the kitchen and find the sharp knife that Florence keeps on the topmost shelf of the pantry. I leave my basket on the table, take one pomegranate, and slip it into the pocket of my dress. The weight of the fruit bumps against me through my skirts, and I feel… anchored.
In the parlor, the air is dim. A sliver of light cuts through the drawn curtains. The air smells of wax and dust and candle smoke. It’s the first time I’ve been back since the night I was here with Rowan, the first time I’ve come past the closed door and not turned my face away.
I go over to the altar and look at the dual icon. The Lady, outlined in gold. The Lord Under, a darkened silhouette. I touch a sparklight to the bank of candles, one by one. Soon the room glows with golden light, and the flames paint movement on the lower half of the icon. On the floor beneath, there’s a faint, faded mark where Rowan once pressed his bloodied palms.
After what he told me, I should be afraid. But somehow—I think this is different. What passed between the Lord Under and me, that night in the woods at midwinter, it’s left a bond between us. I tried to forget him. I tried not to know him. I walked far from the border of death, and yet something drewhim back to me when I came to Lakesedge. I am alive, but I can see him and speak with him.
And I think I cansummonhim.
I kneel down before the altar.
I take out the knife.
It’s precarious, to cut the pomegranate. The skin is hard. The knife slips before it slices through with a swift, wet sound. The fruit cleaves open. Two neat halves. Inside it glistens red and bright, like a heart filled with seeds. There’s a mark on the floorboards from the blade. I lick my thumb and scrub at it, but it can’t be wiped away.
I set the opened halves of the carved-up fruit on the altar.
And then I put the knife against my palm. My fingers shake. The blade scrapes my skin, but it’s not enough to draw blood. I close my eyes, picturing how easily Rowan cuts himself, without any hesitation. I tighten my grip on the handle, take a breath, and drive the blade deep. The pain sears through me; blood wells in my hand like it’s been poured there.
I turn my hand and press it against the floor.
The air shivers, and the honey-warm haze of the room turns to ice. From far off comes a steadydrip drip drip. I look up, my heartbeat spiking, as water beads across the ceiling and begins to trickle over the walls. Slow at first, the droplets fine as mist. Then it changes, becoming swifter, darker. I back away as the oily, ink-black liquid pours down. It covers the floor in an opaque wash that spills across my feet. I flinch. The cold of it runs all through my body.
And then I hear a familiar whisper.
Violeta.
The water begins to ripple. A shape rises from the center of the darkness. I’m frozen in place as the Lord Under steps out of the shadows and comes toward me.
The light goes through him until he shimmers, a pale smear against the gloom. He’s cloaked in a heavy robe that hangs loosely over his dark, close-fitting clothes. His shirt is fastened with silver buckles from his throat to his waist. A crown of driftwood circles his long, pale hair. At the floor, his form dissipates, the robe becoming shapeless mist, another part of the water.
