“What?” I said.
“I just...didn’t think that would work. Not for one single second did I think that would work.”
“Are you complaining?”
“No.” He cinched an arm around me and propped the book on his chest, where we could both see it. “Complaining is the last thing I’d dream of doing right now.”
“Okay. Good.”
“Are you ready, then?”
“Probably not,” I admitted. “But it’s now or never.”
The Lady’s Marche’s story started out innocently enough. The diary’s early entries detailed her marriage and subsequent move to the house—“happy events,” in her words—followed by paragraphs about her hopes for a baby. But when pregnancy eluded her for a year, then two, her optimism lapsed into despair.
Ky turned pages. In them, the Lady chronicled how, in her third year of marriage, she turned to Zephyrine. She made routine treks into the marsh, armed with cakes and wine she left beneath the holy oak.
There, the Lady swore she could feel Zephyrine’s presence. Hear a divine whispering. But her prayers went unanswered, despite the offerings she laid at the goddess’s feet.
In the fourth year, the Lady turned to the hex-casters and healing-women, the ones the townspeople snubbed in daylight but visited by night anyway, pleading for love tonics and beauty salves. There, the Lady paid exorbitant sums for pills and potions, for poultices she let dry on her belly.
Nothing worked.
But I believe I’ve found the answer, she wrote.The woman I saw last night told me hope doesn’t lie here in town, but in the swamp. I just haven’t gone about getting Zephyrine’s attention the right way.
It takes blood, the healing-woman said, and doesn’t that make sense? The patron goddess of things that go slithering in the shadows has no need for wine, but blood.
At that part, I pressed closer to Ky.
“This isn’t going well at all,” he said. “If only the Lady had attended the theatre, she would’ve known not to make a blood pact with a goddess. It never turns out the way it’s supposed to.”
I smiled grimly. “Somehow, I don’t think that would’ve changed anything. She was obviously desperate.”
“Hmm. You’re probably right.”
We read on, about how one day, the Lady slipped into the swamp when “sweet Ollie” went to town. At the foot of the giant oak, she opened her vein. A chalice full of blood later, Zephyrine finally heeded her call.
How can I describe her, other than to call her dazzling? I was dizzy by then, so dizzy I could barely see straight, but thatdidn’t stop me from recognizing divinity. Zephyrine shone, her skin the color of a cypress’s heart, her hair like dark oil. She wore nothing but leaves and vines, yet I’d never seen anything so breathtaking.
I begged. I threw myself at her feet, told her I would do anything for a child.
Zephyrine knelt. Laid a hand on my belly. She peered into my eyes and told me my wish can’t be granted. That something is wrong, inside of me. Not made right for nurturing a child.
The news almost broke me.
But then she offered a boon. My years of pleading hadn’t gone unnoticed, Zephyrine said, and my blood had bought her favor. She said she could birth a child for me—one that would be part of her, of divine origin. I could have the sweet daughter I’ve always craved.
But there’s a catch. Because isn’t there always?
I can only keep the child for a time.
At that, a pang twisted my stomach. Ky’s fingers tightened around the book.
“Is that possible?” I whispered against his chest.
“I don’t see why not. The gods are mysterious. And powerful.”
“Sothat’swhy Amryssa doesn’t look like Olivian? Because she’s not actually his?Orthe Lady Marche’s? She’s...Zephyrine’s?”
