But I don’t want to be devoured.
What can I possibly offer him that will be enough, without destroying myself?
There’s a knock on my door. I sit up and uncurl from thebed, but when I open the door and look out, there’s no one there. Arien’s door, opposite mine, is still closed. I take a step forward, and my foot brushes against something. I bend down.
On the floor, at my feet, is a book. There’s a thin length of ribbon tied around the cover, a square of card tucked beneath with only my name on it. I recognize the handwriting; it’s the same as the inscription onThe Violet Woods.
“Rowan?” I look down the hallway. Why did he leave this here instead of handing it to me? I take a few steps, then pause, resting my shoulder against the wall as I untie the ribbon. The book is small, with a paper cover, and the pages are soft and well worn. Some are creased; some have the corners folded over. It has clearly been read countless times. I leaf through it gently as my eyes scan the words.
It’s not a story. The lines have a shape familiar to the written verses of litanies. But this—this is different.
Place me like a seal over your heart,
Like a seal on your arm;
For love is as strong as death.
Fair as the moon,
bright as the sun,
majestic as the stars.
You are altogether beautiful, my darling;
There is no flaw in you.
Heat washes through me. None of the stories I’ve told or read have made me feel like this. These words are a spell. LikeI have put my hands into the earth, felt the spark and burn of the magic that’s woven through the world. This is the same thrill I felt at the Lord Under’s words.We are connected.This is another connection, just as magic and powerful and frightening.
This light, this heat, thislove—to see it all laid plain like this, in these beautiful words—it levels me. Is this how Rowan feels? When he looks at me, am I some faerie creature, all sun and moon and stars?
I close my eyes and picture the orchard, the way he kissed me in the moonlight. I want him. I want him in a way that I’d not expected to want anyone, ever. He’s under my skin. In my blood. Tangled around my heart.
I close the book and hold it tightly against my chest. I take a few steps into the hall and peer onto the empty landing, where the arched windows show a bare space of pale sky. I want to call out into the silent house, call him back to me. But I don’t.
How can we do this? How can we be together when the world is set to shatter around us?
In the kitchen, the stove is banked to a small fire, and there’s a single candle lit at the altar. I touch my fingers to the salt, then look at the icon, watch the dance of the flame against the Lady. A door scrapes open, and Clover comes out of the stillroom.
“Oh!” She holds up a jar of dried chamomile and laughs. “You couldn’t sleep, either? I never can, after the bonfire.” She moves to the stove, sets the kettle over the fire. “You want some tea?”
When I don’t answer, Clover puts down the jar and comescloser, peering at me curiously. “Are you well? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Her eyes dart nervously to the parlor doorway. “I mean, you haven’t, have you?”
I shake my head. “This was outside my room.”
I hold the book out to her. She flips it open and starts to read. Her brows rise higher with each line.
“Wait. DidRowangive you this?” She sounds gleeful. “I knew there was something going on between you both!” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and leans closer to the book, as if she can divine secrets from the ink and paper. Her eyes widen as she turns through the pages. “Violeta, I feel like I need to sit by the altar after reading this.”
“Oh, give it back!” I snatch the book out of her hands and shove it into my pocket. “It’s not what you think.”
“There’s no use denying it. I saw you at the bonfire. The entirevillagesaw you. They’ll be telling stories about you for years.” She pretends to be serious. “The maiden who tamed the monster…”
“Clover, this isn’t funny.”
At the look on my face, Clover quiets and puts her hand on my arm. “You know, it’s all right if you’re not interested in him like that. Not everyone wants a romance.”
I touch my hand to my pocket and feel the crinkle of paper. “I don’t know what I want.”
