Now is one of those times.
We don’t talk about Landon over dinner. We don’t talk about the mainland or the Covenant Ball or the proper etiquette when hosting a distinguished visitor. We talk about the small, inconsequential details that make up our lives on this tiny island.
And it’s everything.
seventeen
I haven’t slept well since my date with Landon, preoccupied with things I shouldn’t give space to. I’m frustrated by my lack of understanding and the incessant questions that hammer my mind. I wish I could let the moonflower go, let high magic and Wolfe Hawthorne be carried away by a vicious current, never to be seen again. But I can’t, and I’m so angry at myself for that.
Once my parents settle in with their evening tea, I find my harvesting basket and slip outside. I need to clear my head, and I follow the shoreline to the western edge, to the wild coast where I won’t be disturbed. I still haven’t asked my mother about the moonflower, and I know I need to, that I need to put this to rest. But ever since that first night I met Wolfe in the field, an awful feeling has settled in my stomach; this could change everything, and in some ways, maybe it already has. But I’m trying so hard to stay in control of my life, and I think not asking is my way of doing that, of clinging to the way things were before I missed the rush.
Wolfe would call me a coward. Maybe he’s right.
The perfumery is low on violet and narcissus, and I head to the trails where I know I can find more. It’s a calm evening, a beautiful twilight settling over the island, and I hum to myself as I fill my basket with flowers. I start imagining the different perfumes I can make, what combinations I’ll use and what kind of magic I’ll infuse them with. I make perfumes most days, and I never tire of it, never get bored or restless. Using magic for my hair and makeup is nothing more than a convenience for me, but when I’m in the back room of the perfumery, finding the perfect blend of fragrance and magic, I feel completely at home in myself.
At least I did until I met Wolfe. Now I have to ignore a part of my magic that urges me to use more, and I will never forgive him if my low magic no longer feels like enough. I will never get over it.
My basket is overflowing, and instead of heading north, back the way I came, I walk farther south. The southwestern part of the island is heavily wooded, and as I walk through the trees, I start to wonder if maybe there is a home among them, protected by magic. It feels impossible; I’ve explored every part of this island many times over, and yet I’m learning that there is an abundance of impossibilities that are anything but.
I scan the woods, searching for any clues that point to human life—gardens or smoke or gates that might confirm the things I don’t want to believe. If there is a home on this island that none of us know about, it would be in this area, farthest from the houses and shops of the new coven. But I see nothing.
The sky gets darker as I move deeper into the trees, and I suddenly realize how far from home I’ve walked. I turn to leave when I hear a branch break in the distance.
I squint into the darkness, but all I see are the shadows of evergreens.
“Who’s there?” a voice asks, and I recognize it instantly.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I turn the other direction and run, not wanting him to see me. Not wanting him to know I was looking for signs of a magical house or forgotten coven.
It’s so dark now, I can barely see where I’m going. My foot catches on an exposed root, and I fall to the earth hard. My basket lands several feet away from me, the flowers scattered across the forest floor.
For a moment, it’s painfully quiet.
“Mortana?”
I look up, and Wolfe is standing over me. I try to respond but can’t find the words.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks. He offers me his hand, and I slowly take it, ignoring the jolt that moves through me when I do.
“I got lost,” I say, getting to my feet, unwilling to meet his eyes.
“You got lost? On this small island where you’ve spent your entire life?” I’m looking at the ground, but I can hear the mockery in his tone, can imagine the smirk on his face.
“It’s dark out,” I say weakly.
I walk to my basket and start filling it with my spilled flowers, and Wolfe bends over to help me. When I’ve retrieved everything I can see, I stand back up.
“Are you hurt?” Wolfe asks.
“No.”
He doesn’t respond and instead starts walking, picking herbs and plants and adding them to my basket. I follow him slowly, my chest aching as I see the care he takes with each and every plant, the way he gently removes them from the earth and sets them in my basket as if they’re glass that might shatter at any moment.