The water was unusually slippery, flowing over my limbs with sensuous caresses and I glanced at the half-empty bottles of oils, feeling guilty I’d blindly used up so much of them in my haste.
I’d replace them later.
For now, all I wanted was to close my eyes and let the water soothe my frayed nerves. I could already feel the tension in my head disappearing, breaking away from me as calved glaciers fell into the sea, melting smaller and smaller until they were nothing more than water themselves.
When I finally emerged from the bath, the pads of my fingers and toes were wrinkled as prunes but I felt like myself once more.
Being in the water had given me a chance to think, unencumbered, to put together all of the swirling fears that had plagued me since that fateful night at Highmoor, when I’d first seen Rosalie and Ligeia roaming the halls.
Camille believed I saw ghosts and after having listened to Hanna, having seen her flicker, and feel my hand pass through her, I believed she was right.
Ghosts were real. I could see them.
But that did not make me mad.
What happened to me in the poison garden…that was less certain and felt impossible to clearly explain.
My sisters—my long-dead sisters—had been there.
If they were ghosts, and I knew ghosts were real, what did that make the weeping woman?
Real, certainly, but a ghost?
Not necessarily.
Gerard’s theory, that the toxins in the laurel plant were powerful enough to open up a portal in the mind, a thin spot between worlds where wonders grand and dreadful could be experienced, seemed plausible. And if I was already the sort of person prone to seeing otherworldly figures…
Had I seen a god? Or was there a more rational explanation?
Was it a hallucination? A poisoning of my mind? A mind full of locked away memories, memories long forgotten that could be turned into something strange and monstrous?
Or…
Could it be even easier to explain away?
None of the things had happened to me. Not ghosts, not gods, because it was all in my head. Something within me was broken and twisted and wrong.
Was I mad?
I didn’t feel like I was.
And wasn’t the fact that I was even entertaining this line of thought, carefully rationed out and logically presented, evidence that I was not?
Camille had put that poisonous thought within me, instilling me with fear and doubt, a sharp burr intended to forever poke at me, ruining any chance I might have at a normal life away from her and Highmoor.
With sudden resolve, I threw on my robe and crossed to the little writing desk where another unfinished letter to Camille still waited. I seized the paper and began to rip it in two pieces, then four, then eight, methodically destroying the last of my guilt in leaving as I had. I had no need to apologize. I’d done nothing wrong.
When the paper was nothing but bits of confetti, too mangled to ever repair, I tossed it into the waste bin and sat back in the chair, only now noticing the late hour.
Twilight had washed over the world, painting the sky a rosy lavender. A scattering of stars twinkled brightly and an enormous crescent moon hung just above the tree line, looking wistful and dreamy.
I took a deep breath, grounding myself in the moment. This was where I wanted to be. Not back at Highmoor, forever under my sister’s thumb, always wanting things beyond my reach.
I wanted to be here. To stay here. With Alex.
As if bidden by my thoughts, a soft knock rapped on the door.
“Come in,” I called out from the chair, and brightened when I saw him.
“Stay there, stay there,” Alex said as I struggled to stand. He rolled over to me instead, cupping his hands on my cheeks with concern as he assessed me. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner. I only just woke and heard what happened. Are you all right?”
His hands felt warm on my forehead as he checked my temperature and I pulled them away, tangling our fingers together. “Are you all right?”
He seemed slightly off-color and there were circles under his eyes dark enough to look like bruises. He was dressed in his pajamas, a plush emerald robe tied about him, and his hair was rumpled from sleep. I could picture exactly what he must have looked like as a little boy.
Alex nodded. “The pains are gone now. Father’s tinctures always help to ease them away but I’m so sorry you heard all—”
“Stop,” I interrupted. “You don’t need to apologize for that, for any of that. I was so concerned for you.”
“Then I’m sorry for that,” he insisted. “I feel terrible. I should have told you about the fits, but I haven’t had one in so long, I’d hoped that they were somehow over. I hate that I worried you.”
“Did something happen to trigger it?” Our afternoon picnics, our adventures about the estate. Was he pushing himself too much for my sake?
“I don’t think so. They usually come and go without rhyme or reason. This one was…particularly bad, but it’s over now.”
The pads of my thumbs traced the bumps of his knuckles. “You shouldn’t be out of bed. You should be resting.”
His grip tightened, as if afraid I was about to send him away. “I had to come see you. When Father said what happened, I could hardly see straight.” His voice cracked. “I raced over as fast as I could. I just kept imagining the worst and…I can’t believe he could have done something so dangerous. So stupid.” He pushed the back of his hand over his eyes. “That garden needs to be destroyed.”
“Alex—”
“It does,” he insisted. “What if you’d touched a different plant? What if I had lost you? Verity. I…I couldn’t…” He pressed his forehead to mine as his words failed, pulling me into a close embrace around the chair.
I closed my eyes, leaning into his arms. In them I felt safe. It was impossible to think of ghosts or wraiths. It was only Alex. Only us.
“Your hair,” he murmured, his fingers slipping over the dark tangles.
“It’s still wet, I’m sorry,” I said, pulling away, certain the long strands had soaked him.
But he was smiling. “I’ve never seen it down before. It’s so long. So beautiful.” He cleared his throat as if embarrassed by his admission. “You are so beautiful.”
He traced his fingers down my cheeks and I was suddenly, acutely aware that neither of us wore anything but nightclothes. Alex’s eyes flickered over the tassels of our robes, tangled together. His dark green and gold, mine a light jade.
“What a pair we make,” he murmured.
Breathing felt too heavy an act. Speaking, impossible. I nodded.
“Tell me the truth—are you all right?”
“I am now,” I promised.
“I’ve heard the most horrible stories of people who—”
“Alex,” I said, trying to cut him off.
“I’m sorry, I just…I had this awful image in my mind that when I came in, you wouldn’t be here, that you’d be…” He swallowed back the thought. “And I…I’m not ready to live in a world without you, Verity.”
“I’m here. I’m better. I’m not going anywhere.”
His hands framed my face, cupping my cheeks and directing my gaze to him. “I love you,” he said clearly, breaking through my assurances. “I’m trying to tell you I love you.”