It always filled me with equal parts fear and wonder. Some of the night was like a beautiful dream. The smell of woodsmoke and spiced cider, Arien and me amid the crowd with flowers worn in our hair, our hands sticky from marzipan cakes. But the crackle and spark of flames against the sky always drew out memories of an older, crueler fire I wanted to forget. Arien’s dreams were always the worst on those nights.
And now Summersend carries a new kind of weight. The next full moon is the week after the bonfire.
“Do you have a white dress?” Clover asks me. I nod and she smiles, pleased. “I’ll help you with the embroidery. And we can make wreaths!”
“We are not going,” Rowan says.
“You have to go, since you’re the lord. And it will be nice for all of us to do something fun.” She twists the teapot back and forth to stir the leaves. Steam drifts from the spout. “Violeta, we can take this up to Arien now.”
She sets the pot onto the tray beside the cup, while I fetch the jar of honey and a small wooden spoon. I follow her out of the room with everything balanced carefully. Rowan stays behind in the kitchen, but as I leave, he calls quietly after me. “Please, Leta, just … think on it, before you do anything else.”
I close the door between us without replying. As Clover and I walk up the stairs, she arches a brow and looks meaningfully back toward the kitchen. “Didn’t touch the fire, hm?”
I let out a breath, grateful for the cool air in the hallway, how it washes over me in place of the kitchen stove heat. “It’s … complicated.”
She snorts back a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure it is.”
I want so much to join in her good-natured teasing, but the mark on my palm has begun to ache. My whole hand feels painfully numb, like frost has been stitched beneath my skin. It’s an unavoidable reminder of what I’ve done, what I’m going to do.
Arien’s room is filled with early sunlight, the window open to a stretch of cloudless sky. He’s curled on his side, still half-asleep. Florence sits beside the bed, a spill of whitework embroidery on her lap. They both look up at us as we enter.
I wish I could preserve this moment, just stand here in the sunlit room and hold all my secrets close. I take a deep breath, searching for the right words to tell them everything. “I need to talk to you about the next ritual.”
Arien sits up delicately, mindful of his arms, and reaches for the tray with his bandaged hands. The confusion in his eyes shifts to wariness as he takes in my expression. “Leta, what’s wrong?”
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, careful not to tip the tray. “First, I have to explain what really happened in the Vair Woods.”
He lifts the pot and pours tea into his cup. “You already told me about that.”
“Not the whole truth. I did give up my magic. But it wasn’t for myself, Arien. It was for you.”
He clenches the honey jar in his hands, the motion so similar to the one he’s made, repeatedly, during practice for the ritual. He puts it down, unopened. “You gave the Lord Under your magic to save me?”
I nod. “That’s why your magic has changed. He told me it always leaves a mark, when he helps anyone. And that’s why…” I swallow, steadying myself, then go on. “That’s why you were hurt at the ritual. I asked him to save you then, too.”
“You asked him?” Florence cuts in. She draws her fingers across her chest, her eyes widening. “Violeta, don’t you realize how dangerous that was?”
“What else was she supposed to do, let Arien be eaten by those creatures?” Clover pulls restlessly at her braid, looking queasy. “No wonder your wounds were so hard to mend.”
“Because I was hurt by the same magic that made the Corruption.” Arien stares down at his hands, at the blackened tips of his fingers that show past the bandages. Then he turns back to me, his brow creased into a frown. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? And what does all this have to do with the next ritual?”
I hold out my hand and show him the new scar.
“Leta.” Arien pales. “Leta, you didn’t—”
“The Lord Under has offered me the power to mend the Corruption. Alone, on the next full moon.”
“But only the dead can see him.” He turns rapidly to Florence, then Clover, for confirmation. They both look as confused and shocked as Arien does. “You can speak to him, even now?”
“Not right now.” I try to laugh, but his stricken expression silences me. “I summoned him, Arien. I cut my hand and gave him my blood, and I summoned him.”