“No pain.” It’s only been a day, but I’m as afraid to hope that it worked as I am of what it means if it didn’t. If the well here heals, but the one at home doesn’t, I’m no closer to figuring outwhy.
The idea of having pain-free days—of never worrying about the spells that come on with no warning and take me out for days, of never having to worry about hiding my weakness from the world—is hard to fathom. I’m too afraid to want it—too terrified to lose again to let myself truly believe it’s possible.
Still, some small, disobedient part of me refuses to let hope die. Last night was intense, and the fact that I went through all of that after just getting over a headache seems like a good sign.
I turn back to face the art and walk to the last painting. The base painting looks like a stone wall marked with a bright white scar. It actually looks a bit like the fort wall, but the breach happened the night Holly died, so it must be something else. That, or Henry is thinking about the breach—which makes sense since this is his sister’s art.
“What does it do?” I ask.
There’s a static in the air around it. The prickly feeling dances over my skin, and I close my eyes.
Henry steps up behind me, his warmth pressing to my back as whatever magic is in the painting presses against my front. I lean back into him ever so slightly. I breathe deeply, and it doesn’t even bother me that I’m breathing in the cold-forest scent of him. A strange calm washes over me. It reminds me of the peace I feel when I’m lying in bed with Aidia and she’s smiling.
When I blink my eyes open, the painting has morphed. There’s a bright red blotch at the middle and smaller spray coming out from the center. It looks like a blood stain.
I stare at it, not even daring to breathe. A flash of memory rises in my mind unbidden—a flash of blood and pain and gasping, sobbing tears.
I bolt. I don’t even think about Henry’s warning never to run fromhim until I throw open the gallery door. “I’m not running.” My voice is a hoarse rasp.
He’s already behind me. “I know. That’s everyone’s least favorite. It’s hard to look at,” he says softly. “It’s called the heart mirror. It’s meant to show the hidden parts of one’s heart.”
He reaches a hand out to touch my shoulder, but seems to think better of it at the last second.
Henry did this on purpose. He wanted to see what would happen. I shouldn’t have trusted that this was a magnanimous gesture. He always has an angle.
I glance around the hall for anything to distract from my loss of composure. A half-finished painting directly across from the gallery door catches my eye. I walk toward it. The left side of the painting is a swirl of dark blues and purples, dappled with yellow. It looks like the night sky here in the fort—or half of it, at least. In the city, there’s so much light from homes and lanterns that it’s hard to see the stars, but here in the mountains, the fort is so dark at night, the sky is lit up with a brilliant array of stars.
Seeing something so beautiful unfinished makes me feel irrationally sad. It’s not like I knew her, but she was so young and she was just trying to protect her brother.
“This one was in progress when the fort fell,” Henry says.
A small placard below the art reads:In honor of the lost and the Returned from the breach.
“I know who the fallen are, but who are the Returned?” As soon as I ask the question, it hits me.
“Those of us who were called back by my mother.”
I nod. I made everything worse. I want to run. I feel disoriented, like I’m grieving something I didn’t live through and people I don’t know, and my skin is crawling with the desire to run.
“I should have warned you about the heart mirror,” he says softly. “I should have warned you.”
I try not to think of the bloody painting, but it rises in my mind.
Henry ushers me over the threshold and down the hall. “Come. I have a wedding present for you.”
Eyeing him warily, I smirk. “Something more than your eternal distrust and loathing? My wolf, you’re truly too generous.”
29
HENRY
Harlow doesn’t even pretend to like her wedding present. She just stares at the small room with her nose wrinkled, like I’ve gifted her a shoebox full of rats.
“It’s a—closet?” Harlow says.
In her defense, it’s not much to look at. Dark gray walls that soak up the meager light from a sunstone atop a simple wood table. The only other furniture is a velvet reading chair directly across from the doorway we’re standing in.
She purses her lips. “The chair is nice.”
