He leans over me. His skin smells of the same lavender soap that I use. And something else. Spice and honey. Burnt sugar. Black tea.
I put my hand on his chest, above the unlaced collar of his shirt, then trail my fingers upward. I touch the scars on his throat, the same way I did in the garden. He shivers, but doesn’t pull away.
Everything between us feels strange and new and fragile. But I know with absolute surety that I want to protect him, whatever it takes.
I want to mend the Corruption on my own.
I want to be strong enough to ensure no one I love is hurt, ever again.
“Rowan.” I whisper his name against his cheek. “I’m going to find a way to fix all of this.”
He draws back from me warily. “What do you mean?”
I realize I’ve slipped and said I will mend things, rather than we.
“What are you going to do?” He takes my face between his hands so he can look into my eyes. “Leta. Whatever you’re thinking—don’t.”
With my face cupped by his scarred, rough palms, I can think of countless foolish things I want to do. In the end, I do the most terrible of them all. I lie.
“I won’t. I promise.”
Chapter Seventeen
In the garden, everything has gone to seed and flower. The stems of plants are crisped to air-light dryness. I move through the tangled orchard, a basket in my arms.
Trees and brambles make a screen behind me as I follow the path, and soon I’m alone. It’s quiet, with no sound except for my footsteps crunching over the gravel, then soft over bare earth.
At the very end of the path, the leafless, skeletal remains of two trees weave together into a bower, perhaps the tree house where Elan once daydreamed he and Rowan would live. I duck beneath the arch of branches. Inside, it’s cooler, and the latticework of wood shades me from the early sun. I sit down on the ground, the dry earth covered by a scatter of grass and twigs, and curl my hands around the nearest trunk.
I reach for my power, trying to picture the magic coiled in my chest and strung across my skin. It’s still a fight to draw it out. It feels as though I’ve put my hands into a dense fog to search for a single tiny seed. It slips and slips and slips, always just past my outstretched fingers. A metallic taste fills my mouth, and sweat streaks my temples.
I remember my father in our garden, the sparks of his magic over stems and leaves and flowers. I try to let that same bright warmth bloom from my own fingers.
I open my eyes to a world blotched white, with spots of color that dance and shift as I try to steady myself. I wipe the sweat from my face.
My power is still faint, but it was enough. For this, it was enough.
The bower above me is now verdant with delicate leaves. The branches hang low, heavy with fruit: round, ripe pomegranates. I reach for one large enough to fill my cupped palms and trace my fingers over the smooth, taut surface. When I tap the crimson-colored skin, a hollow softness resounds from inside.
I put the pomegranate gently into my basket, then reach for another. One by one, each fruit I’ve picked marks a beat of time. The morning sun tracks slowly across the sky. A sharp, needle-fine twig scrapes against the inside of my wrist. I rub my fingers against the welt and think of the promise I made to Rowan in the darkness. I’ll fix this.
We spent the whole night together, curled up into a crescent. His arm around my waist, his breath against my cheek. I slipped from his room early while all the house was still asleep and went back to my room to change. I put on a new lace dress and pinned up my hair, and then, before I came here, I looked in on Arien.
He was in bed, sleeping fitfully, his wounded arms tucked close against him. With his eyes closed he looked small and young and soft. And whatever hesitation I’d had until then about my plan, it was all gone in that moment.
Back inside, I tiptoe through the kitchen and find the sharp knife that Florence keeps on the topmost shelf of the pantry. I leave my basket on the table, take one pomegranate, and slip it into the pocket of my dress. The weight of the fruit bumps against me through my skirts, and I feel … anchored.
In the parlor, the air is dim. A sliver of light cuts through the drawn curtains. The air smells of wax and dust and candle smoke. It’s the first time I’ve been back since the night I was here with Rowan, the first time I’ve come past the closed door and not turned my face away.
I go over to the altar and look at the dual icon. The Lady, outlined in gold. The Lord Under, a darkened silhouette. I touch a sparklight to the bank of candles, one by one. Soon the room glows with golden light, and the flames paint movement on the lower half of the icon. On the floor beneath, there’s a faint, faded mark where Rowan once pressed his bloodied palms.