In the Wake of the Ruined (The Siren Mage, #2)(46)

He let go of the rope around my wrists. The challenge in his look waned until it was heartbreakingly blank. A gentle breeze fluttered the dark hairs hanging over his brow as an awful lull pressed in around us.

He looked away, staring out into the mist. “I’m a fair pluck on the lute.” He swallowed hard. “The trouble is that it’s my least favorite of the instruments, so it brings me little joy to play it.”

I almost told him to stop, to untie me and let me leave, but I felt suddenly desperate to know what he would say next.

“Back home, in my desk, there’s a blue sketchbook I’ve had for over a decade. Twice a year or so, I get the impulse to sketch. The book is full of uninspired and poorly done drawings… a wineglass, some fruit. They’re embarrassing, really.” His gaze danced across my face and his lips slanted into a deprecating smile. “But I am nothing if not persistent.”

I didn’t know what to say. I offered him a fond look in return. “You are that.”

He swiped a hand down his face. “I’ll be twenty-eight next month. On the twentieth.”

Slowly, he eased himself forward until his folded legs touched mine and reached once more for the rope at my wrists. He didn’t look at me as he spoke; he kept his voice tragically soft. “Here is what I know about you.” He started undoing the knot. I tried to jerk my hands away, terrified to lose the protection, but he firmed his hold on me. He unwound it even slower than he’d tied it, passing his thumbs sweetly over my skin as he went. I felt that small touch everywhere. “You think that I’ve missed something. That I cannot possibly love you when you are made up of unknown dangers and lurking threats. But I don’t see you the way you see yourself. Looking at you is like looking at the turquoise sea on a clear day. I can see through it in places. It’s full of beauty and shadows, and though I cannot know the whole of what it contains, I would happily spend my life trying.”

The rope sat coiled in our laps and Theodore held my hands in his.

I blinked too quickly, trying to keep back tears.

He went on, tracing the shape of my knuckles with his fingertip. “I don’t know how to do this without razing everything my grandfather and father and I built to the ground. I don’t know if you even truly want me.” He looked into my eyes and I could not stop myself from leaning in. “But you must know that I see all the parts you hate and wish to hide, and I love you still.”

He’d made me feel like gossamer and light. Divine. I could do nothing but nod.

Lachlan’s voice called through the fog, close and loud. “Imogen, Gods damn it.” His footsteps pounded on the upper deck, just above us. “Imogen.”

Theodore set my hands in my lap. He waited for Lachlan to leave before he stood, using the bowsprit above him for balance, and started toward the rail of the upper deck. “Magic almost killed you, Immy,” he whispered, looking down at me with beseeching eyes.

I knew how he hated it. He’d begged me to never use it. “It saved me, Theo.”

He shook his head. “No. I did.” I saw everything in his face then—fury, heat, longing, fear. “And Gods damn you, I’ll do it again and again if I must.”

Then he climbed up to the upper deck, over the rail, and was lost to the mist.





14


Imogen


I stumbled through the fog, crossing the busy deck with hands held up before me. Bright lanterns danced overhead. That strange music still twisted through the thick air.

But I don’t see you the way you see yourself.

A pressure built behind my eyes, in my chest, but I fought through in search of the lower deck. I needed to hide away in my cabin. Needed to shore up the gaping hole Theodore had just knocked in me.

I looked for the towering shadow of the mainmast to orient myself in the haze, but I found myself at the ship’s helm instead.

In a pool of light that spilled from a cluster of lanterns sat a table laden with wine and food. A tumble of red flowers ran down its middle, like a vein bursting with the blood of spring. Barely shrouded by wisps of rolling fog, and talking closely before the door to Theodore’s stateroom, sat Markis and Halla. Across from them sat Aleka Baros, nursing a small goblet of amethyst wine.

Halla straightened when she saw me. Even in the dampened light her white gown looked radiant. The shells and gems stitched into it resembled the intricate patterns of frost and spread all the way from the scant bodice to the clinging skirt.

They all looked up at me in silence and took in the details of the gown I wore—a Godsdamned Leucosian binding gown. Markis lingered on the lines of the fitted bodice, but I watched Aleka’s gaze narrow as she noted its stitching.

My face grew hot.

“You’re looking… poignant… this evening, Your Majesty,” Aleka said, the words thoughtful and soft. Her voice was decidedly calming, even if her words made my nerves coil. “And looking surprisingly well after this morning’s incident.”

I swallowed. “His Majesty is an excellent healer.” My fingers dug into my skirt. “And I mean no offense. There was nothing else for me to wear.” The moment I’d said the words, I wished I could have pulled them right back. I should have worn a clean sailor’s uniform. Even the ale-scented sleep shirt I’d woken up in would have been better than this.

Aleka shook her head and spoke with sincerity. “No sovereign need explain themself, Your Majesty. The dress is lovely, and you look lovely in it.”