“Arien.” I try to touch him, but he pushes me away.
“Leave me alone.”
Florence gets up slowly and comes to put her arm around my shoulders. “You must know you can’t save anyone by working with the Lord Under. To even consider this is reckless.”
She and Clover look at me the same way—desperate and concerned. Fearful. But I don’t want them to be afraid. Like they think I’m not capable of this. Like they think I’ll fail.
I shrug out from beneath her arm. “Everything we’ve been doing is reckless. Why is it suddenly a problem now thatI’mthe one with a solution?”
I go out across the hall and into my room, slamming the door behind me. I sit down on the floor, in the corner where I first heard the Lord Under’s voice, and lean back to rest my head against the wall. I start to cry, hot, angry tears. There’s a part of me that wants to apologize to Arien, to tell him we can find another way. But I don’t.
This is my choice. To risk myself, to burn myself down, to face the darkness so they will all be safe.
Chapter Nineteen
Summersend arrives with a daylight moon, a neat, silvered shape in the still-bright sky. In my room, Clover helps me fasten the back of my dress. She stitched it for me, overworking the embroidered pattern with a new design. Tiny stars—white over white—endless, pale constellations. When she finishes the last button, she smiles at me, our faces reflected together in the mirror glass.
Distantly, I remember my mother dressing up for the bonfire, how I watched my father help her. He tied the sash at her waist, then leaned in to kiss her as she squirmed away, laughing. I touch my hair, then run my fingers lightly over the curve of my cheeks. Her hair was darker than mine, and straight, but sometimes when the light tilts against my face a certain way, I can see her eyes, the way her mouth went crooked when she smiled.
“There. You’re perfect.” Clover brushes her hands over my skirts, tidying them. “You know, the whole house has felt so different, so lived in, since you and Arien came here.”
I turn to look around the room. The window is open, the lace curtains tied back. My collection of polished stones is on the mantel, next to a vase of wildflowers. The little icon Arien painted for me is propped beside my bed. “It certainly looks different.”
Clover picks up the wreath I wove from the vines that grow near my garden. Carefully, she sets it on my unbound hair. She wears a similar one, and her hair, without the braid, falls down her back in golden-brown waves.
“Do you think Thea will be at the bonfire tonight?” she asks airily.
“Of course she will. Isn’t her father the keeper?” I raise my brows at her, grinning. “You know, if you end up together in the bonfire line, you’ll get to hold her hand.”
“Violeta, you’re such a schemer.” Clover keeps her eyes fixed to the mirror, adjusting the wreath. A reluctant smile spreads over her face. “I like her. I really like her. But how can I ask anything from her, when I spend all my time here, doing this?”
She holds her arms wide, displaying the sigils on them.
“It might work in your favor. How many other girls will she meet who can cast magic and live beside a poisoned lake?”
“Oh?” She arches a brow at me. “Is that why you like Rowan so much?”
I laugh, but my cheeks feel hot. “I mean, he made such a good impression with all that scowling and threatening.”
“You know what he called you when you first arrived?” Clover deepens her voice into an eerily accurate imitation of Rowan. “That wretched little pest.But he blushed whenever he said it.”
“Truly what I’ve always dreamed of—a boy who blushes as he insults me.”
“I’m glad you didn’t run away that night after the first ritual.” Clover puts her arm around my waist as her face settles into seriousness. “I’m glad you and Arien decided to stay here.”
“I am, too.”
“Despite the fact that there’s a death god lurking around?”
“Despite everything,” I say, smiling. She rests her chin against my shoulder for a breath. Then she reaches into her pocket, her face suddenly turned shy, and draws out a small, wrapped parcel. “Here. I made this for you.”
I unfold the paper carefully. It’s a ribboned bracelet, embroidered with leaves and tiny violet flowers. I run my fingers over the intricate pattern of her clever stitches. “Oh, Clover, it’s beautiful.”
“Don’t cry,” she says quickly. “Or I’ll cry, too.”
I hold out my wrist so she can tie it for me. “Thank you.”
She picks up a lantern and lights it with a flare of magic, then takes my hand. Together, we go out of my room and down the stairs.
