“Why are you marking him?” Clover looks at me, her face pale. “Where exactly did you get this spell?”
“Leta,” Arien breathes, horrified. “You didn’t.”
“We can argue about this after—” I gesture to Rowan and the Corrupted ground. “After we’re done with this.”
Rowan snarls as I hastily write the spell on his wrist between the reopened scars. Then I take hold of his hand and press my palm to his palm, our skin slick with mud and blood. I weave my fingers through his. I close my eyes. I reach.
My power is a low simmer with the feel of a larger flame far beneath it, the strength that waits for the full moon. But when I call my magic, there’s no light, or flowers, or warmth. There’s an awful, hollow emptiness, a terrible feeling of absence. I’m all alone, on an ashen field. The thread of my power winds around me, and it’s red, red as blood. I choke back a sob as the overwhelming loneliness rises up, aching, a wound.
My skin burns, and the sigil on my wrist ignites. The magic comes to me, swift and fast and strong. Sparks scatter through the air, the world turns to fire, but I am cold, so cold. It hurts so much, knowing what I’ve given up to do this, the price I’ve paid for this power.
I grip Rowan’s hand. Put my other hand to the earth, the way I would for observance. But as my fingers sink into the softened mud, there’s no light or glow, none of the warm current of magic that flows through the world. I feel the Corruption. The poison. The endless hunger. The wound, the imbalance that Clover spoke of all those nights ago. And I know I can’t mend it—not here, not now.
But with this spell, I can make it quiet.
Magic fills me—my heart, my lungs, my skin. It hurts. I feel it blister at my palms, spark from my fingertips. I see myself, alone, only ash and decay and darkness all around me.
“Lie still,” I tell it. “Be quiet.”
The ground gives a final shudder. Arien and Clover watch, wide eyed, as the tremors stop.
“It heard you.” Arien’s whisper hangs between terror and awe.
I pull my hand from the mud and put it against Rowan’s chest. He looks at me—crimson eyed and poisoned and gone—and draws in a sharp breath. I feel the tremor of his heartbeat. I lean close and bury my face into the curve of his neck. I’m shivering, feverish; my bones are fire. Light flares and everything glows. I try to push away the ache and emptiness, remember a time when my magic was gold and sun and wonder. Slowly, the thread unspools between us. I can do this. I can save him.
“Lie still,” I breathe across his skin; the same words I used on the Corruption. “Be quiet.”
Rowan flinches as the sigil flares like a sparklight set to lamp oil. The thread of my power is knotted around my ribs, my heart; the other end is tied to him. I take a breath. He takes a breath. He sighs it out. My own breath slows, matching his, as though the sigh has passed between us. He looks at me, and his eyes blink clear. Under my palm, I feel the air move through his lungs. There’s no hiss or rush of lake water.
My temples thud with a headache, and my hands begin to tremble uncontrollably. A hot stripe of blood drips from my nose and across my mouth. I wipe it away quickly, but more comes.
I try to draw back the power. But instead it floods all around me. The thread between us winds tighter, tighter, until it aches. The sigil burns. My skin burns.
The world turns white.
I close my eyes and I let go.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I wake in the parlor, alone. My boots are gone, but I’m still in my mud-streaked bonfire dress. Someone has laid me on the chaise, tucked a blanket over me. The air smells of bitter herbs and honey salve. The curtains are drawn back, the walls turned amber by evening light. The altar looms over me from the opposite side of the room: the Lady all golden, the Lord Under darkly shadowed. The fruit I cut is still there, now dark and charred. The floor is still stained by my blood.
I get to my feet, the world tilting in a dizzying rush. I stagger out into the kitchen. Clover and Arien are at the table, while Florence stands beside the stove, feeding wood into the fire. Arien stays seated, his gaze fixed on the tabletop, but Clover stands up quickly and comes over to me. She takes my hands and peers into my face.
“You’re awake.” She brushes her fingers over the cut on my hand. “How do you feel?”
“Like I just fought off a monster.” I scrub my wrist across my face, then look around the room. “Where’s Rowan? Is he—？ It didn’t—when I stopped him, was he hurt?”