In the Veins of the Drowning(66)

Rain started and stopped as we traveled through the mud, though I hardly felt it. For over an hour I kept silent, a hand firmly over Theodore’s back, counting his breaths and feeling his heart.

If I stopped counting, stopped pushing, I feared what would become of me.

We took a bend in the road and a well-built wooden house, tucked behind a lush, fenced garden, revealed itself. It was painted a creamy white, with those ever-present blooming vines climbing up its walls.

The day was dying. I stroked Theodore’s shoulder. “I wish you could tell me if this is the right place.” Quickly, I dismounted at the garden gate. With some force, the rusted latch gave, and I led the horses into the clearing beyond. On the large, covered porch dozed an older man. The tight coils of his white hair were stark against his black skin. A small pipe dangled in his loose grip.

I glanced back at Theodore, slumped over the horse’s back. The sight alone sent a shot of worry through me. I cleared my throat. “Excuse me.”

The man sucked in a startled breath. Sat up on the edge of his chair. “Yes?”

“Are you Hector?”

The man’s jade-colored eyes were kind, edged in a soft crosshatch of wrinkles. They narrowed on me. “I am.”

He took in my appearance. The soaked, dirty clothes. My knotted tumble of dark, wet hair. Those kind eyes turned hard when they landed on Theodore’s unconscious body.

“Who do you have there?”

“Theodore, king of Varya,” I answered, softly. “He’s sick.”

Hector’s eyes bulged. He moved quicker than I expected him to, stepping off the porch and coming to Theodore’s side with long strides. He set a knobby hand to Theodore’s wet cheek. “Let’s get you warm and dry, my boy.”

Together, we lowered him from the horse, set one arm over each of our shoulders. We started slowly toward the cottage through the mud. “And who are you?” Hector asked in a strained voice.

“I’m Imogen.” I ignored the weight of the severing draught in my pocket. I ignored the shame that made me want to admit all the things I truly was. “I’m Theodore’s wife.”

Hector’s footing fumbled for a moment before he righted. “Wife?” He shook his head and yelled toward the open door. “Antonia!” He spoke to me. “Theo would have told us if he got married. He would have sent a letter.”

“It was a quick binding. Surprised the both of us.” We reached the porch and heaved Theodore’s impressive weight up the small step. “He told me of you two. That I could find you up the road.”

“You went to the Mage?” Hector craned around Theodore’s broad chest, bewildered eyes darting over me.

“Yes,” I said, carefully. “It was merely a prophecy we needed. The ritual brew made him ill.”

The man nodded too quickly, clearly concerned. At the door, we sidestepped over the threshold. I dripped onto the ornate rug that nearly filled the entire floor of the main room. It was finely made, at odds with the simple lines and rough-hewn woods of the house, and I wondered if Theodore had gifted it to them. The entire home, in fact, was a mix of rustic wildland wares and pieces that looked like they belonged in a palace.

The warmth of the home surrounded me like an embrace. I gripped Theodore’s solid middle more firmly. The scents of herbal tea, cut flowers, and a stew simmering over the fire all wove around me, and I blew out a long breath.

This. I wanted this. And I’d never have it.

“This way,” Hector said, guiding us toward a door on the far side of the room. “Antonia?” he called out again. “Where is she?”

A tall woman, lean and strong for her later age, pulled open the chamber door. Her lovely olive skin was dappled with sun marks. Her white hair was piled high atop her head, braided and pinned. “Turning down the bed,” she said in a thin voice. Her troubled eyes were only for Theodore, tripping down his sodden body, taking stock. “He doesn’t look good.”

Together, we got him into dry clothes and tucked into the bed. He’d mumbled and moaned as we jostled him and bent his joints. His skin was still too cold. I dragged my fingers through his hair, combing the knots from it as best I could. I wiped the black sand from his forehead and cheeks as Antonia brought tea and Hector boiled water for a bath.

“There are clothes in the wardrobe there,” Antonia said, finally looking at me. She watched where my hand lingered at Theodore’s temple. She noted my ring. “Nothing too fine, I’m afraid, but it looks like we were close in size. They should fit you nicely. Your Majesty.”

I winced at the title. “Please call me Imogen.”

She gave me a cool look. “I’ll be in later with broth for him, and stew for you.”

I had no energy to try to make her like me. I barely managed a pleasant “Thank you.”

When she closed the chamber door, whatever force had been holding me upright disintegrated. My shoulders slumped. I pulled the severing draught from my pocket and set it next to the pain tinctures on the table beside the bed. Looking at Theodore made me ache, so I made my way toward the tub.

I peeled off my wet clothes, stepped into the steaming water, and cried.

You are so much better together, Rohana had said.

Of all the words she’d spoken to me, those were the ones that played through my mind in a steady, deafening beat. There was no telling the pulse of my heart from the pulse of the bond we shared. They both echoed a similar rhythm—keep him, keep him, keep him.