Arien and I pause beside the row of tables that border the square. They’re laden with food. Marzipan cakes shaped like petals. Almond crescents dusted with frost-pale sugar. Enamelware pitchers of cider, spiced with peppercorn and cinnamon.
I take a cup of cider. Anise flowers float on the surface like fragrant stars. I sip. The sweetness of it spreads through me until the air wavers a little. I blink as the light shimmers. Then I see Rowan, half-hidden in the shadows beside the altar.
He looks so much like he did that day in our cottage. He’s dressed all in black, with the hood of his cloak pulled low over his face. His gloved hands are clenched at his sides, and his eyes are fixed on the ground.
Then he looks up. Our eyes meet. He pushes back the hood of his cloak in an abrupt gesture. His hair is unadorned, the top half tied back into a knot. Light from the lanterns outlines him in gold. His mouth parts, as though he means to speak, but he only stares at me, wordless, as Arien and I move toward him.
“Leta.” His voice goes soft. “You—you look—”
I reach and tuck back a strand of his hair that’s come loose. “You forgot your wreath. Want me to make one for you? I can get some vines from the bonfire before it’s alight.”
“No.”
“Don’t think about it too hard,” I tease. “You could at least say No, thank you.”
His mouth tilts into a begrudging smile. He puts his hand lightly on my waist, drawing me closer, but then his face turns wary as he looks out into the crowd.
Florence walks toward us, followed by someone else—a tall, broad-shouldered man. After a few moments I realize I recognize him from Greymere. Keeper Harkness is even more serious than he was on the tithe day. He carries a basket of bundled pine-stem torches, each tied neatly at the end with twine, and passes them out as he moves through the square.
Thea and Clover trail behind, carrying another basket between themselves. In her long, pale dress, Thea is as beautiful as a crescent moon. Her curled black hair is crowned with summer roses, and her skirts are embroidered with a pattern of bellflowers. She and Clover both look shy and awkward, like they can’t think of what to say to each other.
Keeper Harkness reaches us, and sets his basket down near the altar. He dips his fingers into the salt beneath the icon, then drops a handful of petals across the wooden shelf. He glances at Rowan. “Lord Sylvanan. We’re almost ready.”
Rowan nods, but he doesn’t speak. Thea hands Arien a torch, then gives one to me with a confused, pleased smile. “Oh! I know you both from the tithe day! Whatever are you doing here?”
“They’re guests at the estate.” Clover adjusts her glasses and shakes back her hair. She gives Thea a proud look. “Arien and Violeta are my students.”
“You’re all alchemists?” Thea raises her eyebrows. She looks as though she can’t quite decide if she’s excited, or afraid. She bites her lip as her eyes drift toward Arien’s gloved hands. “Why aren’t you in the Maylands?”
“This is a special assignment.” I lean close and whisper conspiratorially, “Lord Sylvanan is going to use me for his next blood sacrifice.”
Thea lets out a startled laugh and steps back. She looks warily at Rowan before she slips into the crowd. He glares at me murderously.
Florence gives us both a look. “Shall we begin?”
“Please, before Leta says another word and we’re all chased out of here with pitchforks.” Rowan pulls at the tie that fastens his hair, tightening the knot. Then he picks up a torch from the basket and steps forward.
Everyone goes still, and a nervous current ripples through the crowd. It’s as though they had almost forgotten about him while he was in the shadows beside the altar. But now he’s stepped out into the light.
The villagers here aren’t as panicked as people were in Greymere. But the more I look around, the more I see signs of their fear. Garlands of rosemary and sage are strung protectively over windows, and there are scatters of salt across all the doorways. Every now and then, someone will raise their hands to their chest and draw their fingers across their heart.
The way they watch him, it’s the same way I looked at him, once. It’s strange now to see the fear I felt reflected on all those other faces.
And Rowan looks every part the monster they believe him to be.
He notes their fear, and he doesn’t flinch from it. He meets it unrelentingly with a hard, cold stare. The scars on his brow and jaw and throat seem to glow, crimson and raised. And every now and then, so swift it could almost be a flicker of lamplight, shadows shift beneath his skin. Threads of darkness unfurl then soften back to faint, blurred marks. The monster, the boy, the monster.