I squinted, zooming in further.
When I was finally able to make out the cover, I stiffened, every muscle in my body going rigid.
I’d forgotten that book was in there. I should have known, considering that entire room was filled with my mother’s favorite books. What were the chances that, out of the hundreds of books lining the walls, Ariana would find that one?
I bolted to my feet, my pulse thudding louder with every step I ran up the stairs and through the cabin.
By the time I stormed into the library, she was curled up in one of the reading chairs, flipping through the pages. Her eyes shot up as I entered. Wide. Startled.
Afraid.
It almost stopped me cold.
Almost.
I crossed the room in three long strides and ripped the book out of her hands.
“Don’t touch this,” I snapped, my voice low and sharp. “You don’t get to touch this.”
She looked at me with stunned eyes. “I’m sorry. I thought?—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you thought.” I clenched the book tighter, rage lashing against my ribs. “You don’t touch this book. You can read any other book in here. But not this one. Do you understand?”
My voice thundered in the room, the echo seeming to mock me as she stared at me.
But she didn’t back down.
“Who’s Spencer?”
I opened my mouth, on the brink of answering her.
But I refused to go there with her. Refused to let her pry into my past. Offer me some sort of feigned compassion.
I spun around and walked out, gripping the book like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to this world.
Chapter Twenty-One
Henry
I’d barely left my office over the past few days. Not since I stormed into the study and snatched Spencer’s copy ofThe Secret Gardenout of Ariana’s hands.
I hated myself for my behavior immediately afterward, but not enough to apologize. The more space I put between us, the more I treated her like the deplorable human being she was, the easier this would be.
Cato exhaled from beside me on the couch in my office, as if he was able to read my thoughts and disagreed with them.
The Secret Gardenrested in my hands. Worn cover. Cracked spine. Dog-eared pages that had once been enjoyed by a boy who deserved so much more out of life.
“He says it’s the Magic that’s making him well…”
That line always got me. Maybe because Mom used to whisper it like it was a secret between the three of us. Maybe because back then, I actually believed in magic. In goodness. In the possibility that something broken could bloom again.
We all did.
Untilhestole that from us, too.
And I hadn’t done a goddamn thing to stop what happened. To my brother. Or my mom.
My grip tightened around the book. It didn’t matter that thirty years had passed. Time didn’t soften the edges of grief. Not when guilt was the glue that held it in place.
