I let my head fall back, baring my throat. He kisses my neck. His teeth scrape sharply over my pulse. A tattered sound escapes me, and magic blossoms from my hands, heated and golden.
I’m overcome with a rush of desire that blisters, molten, through my whole body. We’re pressed together. Heart to heart, hip to hip. His hand strokes down the curve of my waist, then lower. Through the thin gossamer fabric of my skirts, his fingers grip my thigh. He’s so warm that it feels like he’s touching my bare skin. I gasp, the sound loud in the quiet room. He sighs out a desperate breath that feathers hotly over my skin.
I start to pull at the laces on his shirt, but he catches my hands, stopping me. His thumb fits into the scar on my palm and he sighs again, softer. He bows his head and gently kisses the mark. “Leta, please don’t summon the Lord Under again. Promise me that you won’t.”
His expression is so full of despair that I can hardly stand it. I press my lips together, tasting heat and honey. I wish for another choice. A way out of this where no one would be hurt. I wish I could lie to him, but instead I shake my head. “I’ll not make a promise I can’t keep.”
He lets me go. “You say you don’t want me to be hurt. Well this hurts, Leta.”
I step away from him and cross to the table, to the basket full of the fruit I gathered. I take a pomegranate and slice it open, then scoop the seeds onto my fingertips. Small and bitter, they burst like bubbles over my tongue. Juice runs through my mouth, sharply sweet.
Rowan comes over and picks up a seed with careful fingers. We stand there, on opposite sides of the table, eyes on the opened fruit. Neither of us speaks. Slowly, we eat seed after seed, hesitating each time we reach to pick another. Making sure our hands never touch.
The door opens, sending a bright gleam of sunlight across the kitchen as Clover comes inside. She has a basket of herbs cut from the small patch in the garden; wild mint, nettles, feverfew. The scent of them fills the air. Sweet and bitter and freshly green.
“Whew, it’s really hot in here.” She runs her sleeve across her forehead and peers at the stove. “What have you done to the fire? You know Florence hates when we mess around with it.” When neither of us replies, her mouth lifts into a curious smile as she takes in our stilted silence. “Did I interrupt something?”
I scrub my sticky hands against my skirts and step back from the table. Rowan looks everywhere in the room except at me. “We didn’t touch the fire.”
Clover pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose as she peers at him. “Are you sure? You look a little … overheated.” She touches his forehead, then reaches to check his pulse. Her mouth twitches, as though she’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Do you want some feverfew? I’ve picked plenty.”
“It’s nothing,” he says tightly. “I’m fine.”
As he pushes her hand away, his sleeve falls back. When Clover catches sight of the bandage, her face grows serious, and she reaches toward his arm. “May I see?”
“No, you may not.”
“Clover, don’t you want to put those herbs into the stillroom before they wilt?” I walk over and take the kettle down, fill it with water, and set it onto the stove with a loud clatter. “Arien is probably awake now. I’ll make him some tea.”
“Oh yes, the stillroom.” She gives us both a pointed smile. “I’ll leave the two of you alone.”
She takes the basket into the small space beside the kitchen where she keeps her alchemy supplies. Through the half-closed door, I hear the rustle and scrape as she moves around. The snip of her scissors as she cuts twine to string up the fresh herbs. The kettle begins to hum, the water quickly boiled from the too-hot stove. I wrap a cloth around my hand and lift it away from the heat.
Clover comes back with a jar of dried flowers and a small handful of mint and feverfew. She takes down a tray and an enamelware cup, then fills the teapot with leaves and hot water and sifts in a spoonful of flowers.
“Don’t forget,” she says to Rowan, “you’re supposed to go to the village later. Keeper Harkness wants to talk with you about the Summersend bonfire.”
“Oh, wonderful.” He rubs his forehead, scowling. “Exactly what I wanted to do today.”
At the word—Summersend—I go still. The first night of Summersend is the time when the border between the worlds Above and Below is said to be the thinnest. Each village lights a bonfire, and everyone gathers to chant the litany as the wood and bundled greenery burns down to ashes.