I was so shocked, so startled to see the flames dancing across the precious blooms, that I hesitated to act. The flames chewed through everything before I could think to stop them. And even now, when I pass the bed, with its dead plants and ashy soil, I can’t help but to feel that this is all myfault. I did something wrong, and Lyra is letting me know—whether she means to or not.
I’ve been gearing up to talk to her, to try to clear the air between us. But I’ve not yet been able to bring myself to try to bridge the gap.
It snowed last night—the first snow of the season—and this morning we’re both wearing thick cloaks to ward off the chill while wielding shovels and trying to clear all the walkways so the afternoon sun can help melt the snow and ice away.
But whenever I draw near to Lyra, she moves away from me. And she does it so smoothly that if I weren’t paying attention, I’d probably not notice a thing.
She’s avoiding me. Even her gaze refuses to meet mine.
My heart squeezes so hard that it makes me clench my teeth.
I have to talk to her. I can’t let this frigid distance between us grow into something that can’t ever be mended. I’d never forgive myself.
I’ve just finished shoveling one of the paths that winds through the garden, and Lyra is finishing up with a path that leads to the big greenhouses. When I’m done, I pause to watch her.
She shovels with a furrow in her brow, her lips pulled into a firm frown. Against the stark white of the snow clinging to the ground and the structures around us, her red hair is a beacon, so bright and beautiful that it makes me ache to reach out and touch it, to tangle my fingers in it like I did that afternoon on the rug before the fire.
She’s not touched me since that day. And if I thought I was hungry for touch before I met Lyra, now I’m starving.
With a grunt, she hefts a shovelful of snow off the path, then pauses and straightens up, stretching out her back. Her eyes find me, and I’m not ashamed that she caught me staring.
The frown she wears turns into a barely restrained scowl. “What?” she snaps.
It’s just one word, but it’s full of simmering venom.
“Let’s take a break,” I say, trying not to let on how painful each of her sharp glares is. “I’ll make us something warm to drink.”
Something flickers through her eyes. If I’m not mistaken, it looks like sadness. Then she slams the windows in her gaze closed, tearing her eyes from mine before I can see too much.
“No thanks. I’ve got plans this afternoon. Let’s just hurry up and finish.”
I’ve never been struck by an arrow before, but each of her words lands like one, piercing me deep.
I really fucked up. Dammit, Cairn.
Without looking around to ensure no one is watching us, I take a wide step toward her and say, “Lyra, look at me.”
She doesn’t. But I know she’s listening, because the furrow in her brow deepens.
“Lyra. Please?”
The word comes out laced with pain, and she must hear it, because she finally relents, turning her face so I can meet her eyes. But she doesn’t say a thing, just stares at me, thedistance between us feeling like it’s stretching into a yawning chasm.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
And I know I’ve fucked up again when anger flickers in her crimson eyes.
Before she can say anything, I hold up a hand. “I’m sorry. I know what’s wrong. You’re angry with me about the letter. But—”
“You don’t have to apologize.” She takes a long breath, then lets it out in a whoosh, steam billowing around her lips. “It’s not like we’re friends or something. And you’ll be leaving soon, so I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
More arrows land true. I’m surprised I’m still standing.
“Lyra, that’s not—”
“Are we done here?” She casts her gaze around at all the freshly shoveled walkways. As the morning sun climbs higher in the sky, the paths are already starting to melt. “Like I said, I’ve got plans, so if we’re finished up, I’d like to go.”
I want to tell her that no, she can’t go. She has to stay here and talk to me, has to understand why I didn’t tell her.
