I put down the last plate with a clatter. “I think he’s staying upstairs.”
I circle my hand around my wrist, feeling the place where Rowan’s fingers dug in. He’s losing himself to the Corruption. If the next ritual fails, it might just claim him entirely.
Florence frowns, concerned, but then she’s distracted by Arien and Clover coming inside from the garden. They’re both quiet, with worry lined deep around their eyes.
“I couldn’t do it, Leta.” Arien looks from me to the open doorway, where the sigil is still carved out on the lawn, the center lined with jars. “It worked, before, when you were there. But after you left, when I tried again, I couldn’t—”
He goes to the washstand and scrubs and scrubs at his hands. He wipes them against a cloth, then comes to sit at the table opposite me.
“You still have time,” I tell him.
He sighs crossly. “I don’t.”
“You do.” Clover’s smile doesn’t quite reach her tired eyes. “It’s only just past the dark moon. We have time until the next full moon, the next ritual. From tomorrow, we’ll practice harder.”
Florence puts her hand on Arien’s back. “I’m sure you can do this.”
She sets a platter onto the table and begins to slice a loaf of sourdough bread. The food here is similar to our meals in the cottage. Wilted greens, nettle salad, sugar peas, and summer squash. There’s a clay bowl on the table filled with pink salt, a tin pitcher beside it full of mint tea.
Usually, the evenings together in the kitchen feel like a golden pause. A place where we can sit and talk and forget about the lake. Forget to watch the moon as it moves from dark to half to full in the summer night sky. But tonight feels grim and tense, and we all eat in silence.
Rowan comes into the kitchen just as Florence has started to clear the table. I quickly turn to him, my whole body wound tight with apprehension. But there’s no sign of how he looked before when he was changed.
“There you are,” Florence says. “It’s your turn to wash the dishes tonight. Don’t forget.” She goes over to the shelves to collect cutlery and another plate, which she fills from the covered dishes set aside by the stove.
Clover pours out more of the mint tea and passes it to him. “I was going to steal your share of dessert.”
She gives his arm a playful shove, but he only glares at her. Sighing, she goes back to her chair as Rowan sits down beside me. Our knees touch beneath the table, and he moves quickly away. We’re no closer together now than when we stood by the window earlier, but somehow, he feels closer.
I lower my voice, aware that everyone else can hear me. “Are you feeling better?”
“I’m fine.” He puts something down on the table. A book. My book. The Violet Woods. “You left this in the pocket of my cloak.”
Clover stares at the two of us curiously. “You wore his cloak?” she asks in a barely concealed whisper. She tries, and fails, to hide her smile.
Rowan ignores her and eats silently, his eyes fixed on his plate. When he’s finished, Florence brings out dessert: sour cherry cake, the top dusted with sugar.
“Is that from the tithe?” I ask Clover.
“Yes.” She makes a face. “I never want to lift another basket again. I love sour cherries, but I’m not sure it’s worth a whole day in the village being bossed around by Keeper Harkness and his annoying daughter.”
Florence starts to cut the cake into squares. “I thought you liked Thea?”
Clover tugs at the end of her braid, and doesn’t answer. Now it’s my turn to hide my smile.
“I think I made those cherries.” I laugh softly as I reach over and pick up a square of cake, feeling bittersweet as I remember all the time I spent in the orchard picking fruit, the days at the stove, and the endless stirring.
But my laughter dims as I recall the night in the kitchen when the air smelled like syrup, when I knelt with the shards of glass in my knees. Then, all I wanted was to keep Arien safe no matter how much it might have hurt me.
I can still feel the faint tug from the thread of magic that was tied between us when he cast the spell today. I look across the table at him. He’s been quiet for most of the meal.
He picks at his dessert, scatters crumbs across the table. “What happens if I can’t control my magic by the full moon? What happens if I can’t help Clover cast the spell?”
“Then you’ll wait,” Florence says gently. “You’ll try again on the next moon.”