It’s an unavoidable reminder that soon Arien will have to go back to the lake and to the dark, hungry ground that tried to consume him. It’s only a few weeks until the month of Midsummer and the next full moon, when they’ll perform the ritual again.
But before then, I’m going to find out the truth about Rowan Sylvanan.
Chapter Ten
It’s late. In the starless dark, my eyes are heavy with fatigue. Everyone else is asleep, and the house is silent around me, where I sit in my room. The only light is from the candle beside my bed. In my hands are five vials of the sedative draft Clover puts in our tea. I stole them from her stillroom. The glass clinks together in my cupped palms.
I need sleep. Sleep that feels like being buried alive, that I can’t escape. I need to sink so deep that when the dreams come, I won’t be able to turn away.
I open the first vial. The glass is hot against my lips, heated by the warmth of my nervous hands. It’s horribly bitter as it fills my mouth, so sharp and acrid that when I swallow, the whole world turns virulent green. The little wooden icon that Arien painted for me—set on my bedside table—wavers before my blurred vision.
For the past two weeks, I’ve watched Arien and Clover prepare relentlessly for the next ritual. We’ve spent each day in the library, hemmed in by shelves filled with the jars of inky water and blackened mud they’ve dredged up from the lake. They work until sunset each day. Arien calls the shadows and weaves the magic around the jars of Corruption. Clover stands beside him and calls out instructions, trying not to be frustrated with him when he falters.
But no matter how hard they try, Arien can’t control his magic enough to cast the spell.
“Again,” she says when he slips, and the shadows dissipate into mist. “Again.”
His hands shake. He scrunches them into fists, then grasps the jar. “I can do this. I know I can do this.”
As much as Clover pushes him, Arien pushes himself harder. His arms are covered in sigils. His hands are smeared dark to the wrist with mud and magic and ink. The blackness never clears from his eyes. Again again again.
I’ve sat in the library and watched them and wished I could help. Watched the moon wane, a smaller crescent each night, and wished I could take Arien’s place.
But I have no magic. All I can do is chase the shadows.
I need to dream again. I need to see the visions and hear the voice that knows my name. I’ve tried and tried. Sat awake, my eyes fixed on the corner of my room. Walked the halls and tried to open each locked door. Followed the path through the starlit garden, past overgrown weeds and flowers. I’ve even gone to the lake, watched the water lie inky and still beneath the slender moon.
But no matter how much I’ve watched or waited … nothing.
I open the second vial. Tip it into my mouth. The taste burns all the way down. Nausea rushes through me in a brutal, sudden wave. I curl forward as the world tilts unsteadily. My whole body goes leaden and sluggish, like my skin is full of stones.
All the remaining vials fall from my hands, the glass clinking as they spill onto the quilt. I stare out into the room, watching as the walls start to shiver and shift, as blotches of darkness bloom and fade over the floor.
Water begins to pool in the corners. I get to my feet; the bare boards are cold, like I’ve stepped into a forest of midwinter ice. The candle flame flutters like a frantic, luminescent moth.
The water deepens, rising over my feet. The walls are washed dark. I stretch out my hand. A cold, sharp hush of air kisses my fingertips, as though there’s breath trapped beneath stone and plaster.
I put my palm against the wall. Taste bitter herbs. Taste ash and salt and blood. “I’m not afraid. Please. Tell me. Show me.”
I can hear it—a sound, a whisper. I close my eyes and try, desperately, to listen. Then it comes. The voice. It speaks to me in a stir of night air. In a rustle of dry leaves.
Follow.
My eyes snap open. The room has gone. The house has gone. I’m outside beneath a lavender, dawn-lit sky. There’s a forest behind me; susurrations of wind stir through the pale trees. There’s a stretch of earth. Strands of tall, reedy sedge grass. And water. Endless water. Flat and smooth as mirror glass, it reflects the pastel clouds.
The lake.
I’m alone. I’m not alone. There’s a presence—I’m sure there is—but when I turn, it slips away. I can’t see it clearly no matter how hard I look. Only glimpses. Only pieces. Shadows and the steady drip drip of water. Always just to the side of me, here and not here. I can’t see it, but I can feel it. It’s watching me. It’s … waiting.