But I watch.
When she disappears beyond the arch of brambles, the Grove exhales. The vines shift. The air stills.
But I remain standing.
Still rooted. Still burning.
She’s strange, that human. Too quiet and too bold all at once. She stammers and laughs and blurts out things she probablymeant to keep to herself. She reads science books to spirits like it makes sense.
Sheseesthings others don’t.
She looks at this old, broken place and doesn’t flinch.
She looks atmeand doesn’t look away.
Odd.
Unpredictable.
Beautiful.
I glance back at the tree. The glow hasn’t returned. The rot hasn’t slowed.
But I wonder if something might grow from this dying place after all.
CHAPTER 11
CLARA
Iused to like mornings best.
That hour of crisp air, when the sun’s still yawning and the world hasn’t decided what kind of day it’s gonna be. That used to be my moment—quiet and clean and mine.
But lately?
Lately I find myself waiting for dusk.
I clock-watch during the day. Pretend I’m totally engrossed in soil temperature charts and companion planting plans. But by four-thirty, I’m twitchy. By five, I’m slipping on my hiking boots. And by five-fifteen, I’m back in the Grove with a sketchbook tucked under my arm like it’s armor.
I don’t always see Thorn right away.
Sometimes he waits.
Sometimes he watches.
But I feel him there—like a shift in gravity. Like when the hairs on your arm rise and you know someone’s behind you, but you don’t flinch.
You justbreathe.
That’s what it’s like being around him now.
Today, I spread out my field blanket under the willow arch and crack open the sketchbook. The pages are crinkled andsmudged, full of clumsy lines and shaded corners of the Grove—the curve of a vine that hadn’t bloomed last week, the hollow in the sacred tree’s bark, the delicate twist of roots that now pulse faintly beneath my feet.
“Your hands are steadier,” Thorn says from behind me.
I jump a little. “You can tell?”
He steps into view, silent as fog. “Your lines used to tremble.”