Clover laughs good-naturedly as I stare at the room. “I know. My mother’s whole cottage would fit in this hall.”
Arien looks around, wide eyed. “It’s all so empty.”
It is empty. I can hear voices from the depths of the house—the measured notes of Florence, the deeper tones of the monster, but the entrance hall is quiet and still. There’s hardly any furniture, and the walls are bare. There’s no light except for a single candle. A lamp hangs in the gloom above, but it’s unlit, threaded all over with cobwebs. Beneath the dust, the glass shades gleam like gemstones.
We follow Clover across the hall and down a long corridor.
“Have you been here very long?” I ask her.
“About a year. It’s my first job, my first time away from home.” She tugs at the end of her braid and smiles, shyly proud. “I’m the alchemist for Lakesedge Estate.”
I look at her with surprise. I’ve heard of how alchemists sometimes leave the Maylands—their commune near the far-off capital—to live at an estate and help the lord. It’s said they can do wondrous things. Heal beyond the power of village herbalists. Make crops grow from drought-ruined fields. But the materials used in their magic are rare and expensive, so most places like Greymere only have a healer.
“Oh,” Arien says, his face alight with a peculiar longing. “Can I see your spells?”
Clover laughs and rolls back her sleeve to show us her arm. Her skin is inked all over with tiny, detailed marks. Circles and sharp-cornered lines all connected together. Arien leans in to take a closer look. “They’re beautiful, Clover.”
I wish I could share his awe. The symbols are beautiful, but the thought of having spells woven into me, marked forever on my body, is unsettling.
Clover leads us into a large kitchen. There’s a table at the center and the cast-iron stove has just been lit. The new fire sends a flickering, orange glow into the room. Clover moves around busily, setting the table for tea. While Arien helps her, I go over to look out the window. Behind the house is an overgrown garden, silent in the moonlight.
The monster comes into the room. He ignores us, pausing by the altar on the opposite wall to light the candles. He takes one from the shelf and sets it into a jar, which he puts down carefully on the table beside the teacups that Clover laid out.
He’s no longer wearing his cloak, and he looks younger without the weight of it around his shoulders. If I didn’t know any better, he might just be a boy, with his hair knotted from the wind and tired lines beneath his dark eyes.
I start to walk toward him. I don’t know what spurs me forward. Some reckless impulse. Like throwing a stone into the well just to hear it splash. Or maybe I want to prove to myself that I don’t have to be afraid.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Lord Sylvanan?”
His head snaps up. “Don’t call me that. I don’t use my title.”
“Well then … do you have a name?”
He stares at me like it’s the most ridiculous question. I move closer still. The candlelight turns our shadows to ghosts on the floor. Up close, I can pick out tiny details of him that I hadn’t noticed before. His hair isn’t black but dark, dark brown. Both of his ears are pierced with rows of slender, silver rings.
Finally, he sighs. “Rowan.”
“Rowan.” The shape of it lingers after I speak it aloud. A monster. A boy. A boy with a name that I can feel on my tongue. Darkly sweet, like honeyed tea. Heat starts to creep across my face. I laugh, nervous. “I suppose you’re a little too young to be a real lord.”
The monster—Rowan—scowls. “I’m older than you.” When I raise a brow, he goes on. “I’m nineteen.”
“Two whole years? Oh yes, an eternity.”
“Wait,” Clover says. “Rowan, what’s wrong with your arm? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt? This looks awful!”
She reaches out to the bloodied cloth wrapped over his sleeve, then tries to touch his hand, where he’s tied a fresh bandage over his torn glove. But just like he did with Florence, he pushes her away. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
She sighs, irritated, but doesn’t argue. The kettle starts to boil, and Arien takes it from the heat. Clover goes back to the table and starts to make tea. While it steeps, she takes out a small glass vial from her pocket. The liquid inside is a virulent green. She pours the tea then uncaps the vial; a curl of steam hisses out as she tips the strange potion into each cup.