Say something,he begged, but she did not, instead levering the shirt over his head and dropping it to his waist.
Her hand rested against his chest, hovering over the bandages. “Someone should change these for you,” she said. “I’ll send for them.”
She got up to leave, and he coiled his fingers into fists to stop them from reaching out to her.
That night, he dreamt Juliana returned to his chambers. He tried to rise towards her, but she pushed him back to the bed, mindful of his wound. She told him not to move as she slid astride his lap, taking his face in her hands.
When she bent her head to his, the proximity turned his thoughts to mush, her kisses hot as fire and yet like water on the leaves of a dying plant. Impossible to exist without them. Easy to crisp away beneath them.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she murmured into him.
“You’re here now.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
“Then don’t. Stay.”
“But I must,” she whispered. “I must, you see, I must!”
He reached out to steady her, but she had dissolved into shadow and smoke.
The scene shifted. He stood beneath the great boughs of the hall, the branches draped in flowers and ribbons. Serena was beside him, dressed in bridal fashion, a long veil studded with gems and seashells obscuring her face.
“We’ll be happy together, won’t we?” she asked.
Hawthorn looked out, and realised the congregation was filled with bones. Full skeletons were propped up in seats, scattered with crows that cawed and plucked at ribs. Veils of cobwebs carpeted the room, snakes slithered from empty eye sockets, moss draped over them, parodies of clothing.
In the centre of the room was a skeleton draped in a gown of moths, a veil of spiderwebs reaching across the floor, a flower pendant resting against her ribcage, a sword of thorns in her grip.
Juliana.
He bolted up in bed, seething as he pulled at his wound, pain lashing through him, whip sharp.
In the next room, he heard the sound of Juliana stumbling out of bed, appearing seconds later, sword at her side.
“I’m not under attack,” he said swiftly, “just pulled my wound.”
Juliana hovered in the doorway. His dream started a little like this, and for a second, he thought she might come to him again, touch him with those hands of hers.
But of course, she didn’t.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Should I fetch someone?”
You, Jules. I just want you.“No.”
“Go back to sleep,” she whispered. “I am next door if you require assistance.”
He did not want her sword, or her help. He wanted her in ways he had no words for.
He found himself bitterly unprepared for the agony of want. He was used to sordid fantasies and sick desires, used to craving flesh and sex. This… this was something else. He wanted to pull her into the bath with him, to stroke that flame-gold hair from her back and kiss every bruise and muscle and scar while she lay slotted against his chest. He wanted to dance with her all night long, body against his, breath on his face. He wanted to wake in her arms, for her stiff face to smile at him, for those lips to speak softness in his ears.
He wanted her body to whisper poetry to his.
He wanted her to want the same things of him.
It was not the first time he had dreamt of kissing Juliana, of doing a hundred other things with her. It was not the first time he had dreamt of watching her die.
He wondered which thought would haunt him longer.
