CHAPTER TWELVE Now
We’re chased back to Saltswan by the rising storm, the sky leaden with clouds, a swift wind sweeping in from the sea. As we hurry toward the house, the petrichor-scented air is heavy as a veil. It begins to rain the moment we step inside. Enormous drops pelt against the windows, filling the entrance hall with a rapid-fire staccato sound that covers all else.
Alastair takes off his coat, hangs it back on the hook beside the door. His wet hair is plastered against his face, sleek as silk. He pushes it out of his eyes with his wrist, then notices his shirt is still undone. He starts to re-button it, but his fingers are numbed from the cold, clumsy against the sodden fabric.
Laughing, I move forward. “Here, let me help you.”
He starts to laugh, too, a nervous edge to it, but he allows me to fasten his shirt for him. It feels dizzying, this closeness: my knuckles brushing against his bare chest, the rise and fall of his breath. He’s standing so still that he trembles with the effort.
The noise of the storm makes the space around us feel pressed close, the walls curled inward, the ceiling lowered. It’s impossibly intimate, the same way it felt the first time I was invited inside Saltswan. When Alastair took me up to his bedroom.
And now he’s watching me, cheeks flushed, gaze heated. Our laughter dims. His hands curve around my own. He touches me like I’m a pearlescent shell laid out on an altar.
His expression darkens, and his fingers are restless against mine. “This is all my fault,” he says, low and solemn. “If not for me, you wouldn’t have bound yourself to Therion. I was willing to ruin your family, just to please my father.”
In his eyes I see all my own pain and longing reflected back. All the unkind words and anger that have passed between us. I’m filled by a rush of tenderness, so fierce that it aches. I want to hold Alastair in my arms again, stroke my fingers through his sea-wet hair.
“You weren’t trying to please him. You were trying to protect yourself.” I look down at our hands, fingers interlaced, the shimmer of my betrothal ring. “What happened to me isn’t your fault. Perhaps I blamed you once, but I don’t anymore. Not when your father has treated you so brutally.”
His lashes dip, his breath comes out in a jagged sigh. Quietly, he asks, “Would you tell me about what happened at Marchmain, why you were expelled?”
I hesitate. Until this moment, I’d wanted to keep the truth of what happened shut away, locked tight. To put it into words was too painful. But now, standing with Alastair, the sound of the rain closing out the rest of the world, I realize … I want him to know.
“There was a girl: Damson Sinclair.” I swallow, feeling a shiver. It’s the first time I’ve said her name out loud since I came home. “She was my best friend at Marchmain…”
And so I give Alastair the whole story. He listens intently as I tell him about my years at school, my time with Damson. How it was so golden at first, like magic. How we built our own private realm. And then, finally, how it all fell apart.
When I’ve finished, the rain fills in the quiet that extends between us. Alastair slips his hand free of mine. He touches my face, painstakingly gentle. His thumb strokes my cheek and I realize that I am crying. “Lacrimosa,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
Slow, slow, slow, I step toward him. His arms go around me. I press my cheek into his shoulder, letting my tears join the seawater that has saturated the fabric. His fingers comb through my hair, tucking it back behind my ear. He bends to me. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and his voice is a plea, a supplication. “I’m sorry for what I did, and how I treated you. For the debt, for the way I spoke to you after the bonfire, for everything.”
When I think of how things ended between us that summer, it aches. But now I know the whole truth. Cigarette burns and broken bones, Alastair trying to survive his father’s cruelty. The same way I tried to survive Damson, our last year at Marchmain. I know how it feels to love someone who is like a poison. To want so desperately to please them, even though it wounds you.
I look up at him, the sorrowful lines of his features, this boy who hurt me so much. “I forgive you, Alastair.”
His hand slides down my arm, gently touching my wrist. His fingers cast over the scar, over the feathers, over my rising pulse. I press my lips together, remembering how it felt on the clifftops, our clasped hands, the way he exhaled when I first touched him. Not for the first time, I imagine how it might feel if I kissed him.
It would be so simple. Only a half step forward, and his mouth would be on mine.
But I’m so conflicted. I’m drawn to Camille. I’m drawn to Alastair. I care for them both in equal measure. We were always a trio, and it feels impossible to divide that, to choose one part and set aside the other.
The noise of the rain momentarily fades. Into the quiet comes the sound of footsteps. We draw apart swiftly as Camille makes her way down the stairs.
She’s changed into a pair of trousers and a sloppy woolen sweater; the oversized sleeves bunch around her elbows as she folds her arms, regarding us with a frown. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Lark, what did your brothers say?”
I hesitate, casting a quick glance at Alastair. I don’t want to tell Camille what I overheard when he was on the telephone. “I wasn’t able to reach them.”
“So why did you both run out into the rain?”
Alastair lifts one shoulder in an evasive shrug. He tells Camille, “It wasn’t raining while we were out.”
“You’re hilarious,” she says, unamused. “If you weren’t in the rain, why are you dripping water all over the floor?”
“If you must know, Father telephoned. After we spoke, I wanted to clear my head, so I went for a swim.”
Camille’s frown softens. “Was he as bad as usual?”
“It was just one of his regular lectures,” Alastair says, a forced lightness in his voice. He turns toward the stairs, studiedly avoiding Camille’s skeptical look. He plucks at the wet collar of his shirt. “I’m going to change.”
I stand beside Camille as he leaves. She sighs, her shoulders slouching. After he’s gone, I head toward the sitting room, where I left my satchel, and she trails after me. “So, it seems like you and Alastair have reached a truce.”
I glance back at her, resisting the urge to fidget. “We might have.”
“You both looked very sweet, standing so close together when I came downstairs. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
Her mouth tilts into a sly smile. My face heats instantly, and I press my palms to my cheeks. Faltering, I try for an explanation. “I’d never do anything to hurt either of you.”
Camille watches me squirm for a moment, then laughs gently. “Listen, Alastair and I aren’t possessive with each other. We never have been. Father always tried to make us enemies. But I love Alastair. I’d never begrudge him anything that makes him happy. He’s the only one in the world who is truly mine.”
“I thought you just said you weren’t possessive,” I tease. Camille rolls her eyes at me, still laughing.
“No matter how often Father tried to force us into competition, Alastair and I refused to play along. It was one of the few ways we could rebel. Father hated it. That’s partly why he sent me away, not that he’d ever admit it. If he couldn’t make us enemies, then he wouldn’t allow us to be allies.” She bites her lip, shifts toward me. Her fingers lace through mine. Already there’s a thrill of familiarity in her touch, as though even my bones, my blood recognize her.
Camille’s voice lowers, her expression turned shy. Her thumb casts restlessly against my knuckles. “What I’m trying to say is that we’re never envious. We’d never ask you to … choose.”
The way she looks at me makes me feel incandescent; I’m so hot with embarrassment that perspiration beads at my temples, traces down my spine. All I can think of is the golden ratio, and pressing my lips together as I gather myself, I say, “In painting, the best compositions are able to be divided into thirds.”
“Hm, I like that. The thought of us all being like art.” Camille smiles. Then, gently, she goes on, “I heard what you said to Alastair before, about why you were expelled. I’m sorry, too.”
“At least coming home meant that I was able to see you again.” I’m trying to be effusive but my words come out raw, hot tears blurring my eyes. I wipe them away, sniffling, trying to fight the tide of my rising hurt. I don’t want to still be so wounded, to let the ache of Damson’s betrayal intrude on this moment with Camille. But it’s inescapable.
She tugs me closer, her hand sliding to my waist. “You deserved so much better, Lark.”
“It’s just—I’m so afraid,” I admit, my voice unsteady, edged by sobs. “All I wanted was to be a curator, to spend my life with Caedmon’s paintings. Who am I without that? Sometimes it feels like there’s a limit to all the good things in the world. That by the time I realize what I want to do, now, instead, it will be too late.”
Camille’s eyes turn bright, lit by anger—anger on behalf of me. “I wish I had been at Marchmain with you. And when those wretched girls made you hurt, I would have hurt them right back. Lark, the entire world, and all the good it has to offer, will be limitless, and yours.”
She’s so vehement, so certain as she promises the impossible, to bend the world to her will. The violence of her words, the sure press of her palm against my waist, turns me helpless. I gaze at her for a moment, taking in the dark arch of her brows, the high color on her cheeks. Then I weave my hands into her hair, drawing her down to me. I kiss her, heated and wanting.
Camille makes a keening, urgent sound. I can still feel her fierceness in the set of her mouth, the protective ire she felt because I was hurt. She clutches me with hunger, drags me close until her hips meet mine. Her teeth are sharp, scraping over my tongue, as she deepens our kiss.
My breath catches, and the scent of her perfume—strawberries, sugar—envelops me like a haze. Camille kisses me as though she wants to make me anew. And I—I want nothing more. I am bespelled by the taste of her mouth, the press of her hands, her fingertips drawing filigree patterns against my waist. This closeness is a strange magic, one I never knew existed until she revealed it to me.
My eyes sink closed. I feel like the sunlight over the ocean, the way it fragments and turns to gold. Everywhere Camille touches me turns liquid, melting. Her mouth slides lower, past my jaw to the curve of my throat. Her tongue laves against my pulse, and I let out a formless, yearning gasp. She laughs, pleased, and nudges her leg between my thighs.
We stumble back, then; with a jolt, we bump into a piece of furniture that’s behind us—the table where the telephone sits. Piled magazines scatter beneath my careless hand, spilling over the tabletop. The telegram from my brothers drifts down to the floor, landing between our feet.
Camille and I move apart. I bend to rescue the telegram; she turns on the nearby salt lantern. It clicks alight, filling the room with brightness. Outside, the storm rises, and the wind sounds like the howl of wolves. I look down at the telegram with a sigh. “I have to try and call Henry and Oberon again.”
Camille lays her hand on my back, stroking gently. “I’m going to check on Alastair. Don’t run away, this time, after I’m gone.”
“I won’t, I promise.”
Laughing, she retreats down the hallway, calling out to Alastair.
When I’m alone, I lift the telephone receiver. My hands are shaking, my palms sweat-slick. I pause for a moment, letting myself hope—foolish as a child—that my brothers will be able to solve everything.
I place the receiver to my ear. Pick up the telegram so I can read the number for the hotel where my brothers are staying more clearly as I dial. But there’s no tone. I press the switch hook a dozen times, but the line stays silent.
The silence of the dead line echoes in my ears as I go upstairs.
The landing is unlit, the large front windows of Saltswan covered by streaks of falling rain. As I approach the library, I can hear Alastair speaking to Camille as he explains about Hugo’s appearance at my betrothal night.
She laughs, incredulously. “What, Hugo Valentine? Your ex-boyfriend?”
“It’s not funny, Camille.”
They both look up as I enter the room. They’re seated on opposite ends of the chaise beside a newly lit fire. Alastair has changed into dark linen trousers and a simple knit shirt. His hair has settled into inky waves as it dries. He scowls at Camille, his arms folded. “Gods,” he sighs. “What a mess.”
I move forward, going to sit down on the chaise between them. But as I take a step, the floor ripples beneath my feet. I start to sink, like I’ve stepped into quicksand or a hidden tidal pool.
The sound of the rain against the library windows turns to the sound of waves. As though the ocean has risen so high that it’s reached the upper floors of Saltswan. I turn quickly to look at the window. Blackened waves lap the sill. Strands of kelp form curlicues against the glass.
In desperation, I look back at Alastair and Camille. They’re still on the chaise. Camille stares blankly at the fireplace, her eyes fixed to the flames. As though she’s under a spell. But Alastair gets slowly to his feet. He comes to me as a wave of salt water washes over the floor, cresting, frothing around us. At his back, a pallid blur unfolds. Wings of stark white feathers. I stumble toward him, reaching for his hands.
“Alastair?” I’m shivering so hard that my teeth bite together. I can hardly speak. My dress is soaked through, plastered against my skin, the fabric drenched. As though I have been submerged.
Alastair cups my face with his hand. His fingers are like ice, sharp-tipped, his nails turned to translucent claws. He gazes at me with mismatched eyes, one gray, the other bright as flame. The amber eye of a swan.
“Lacrimosa,” he breathes, and then his features shift. Boy becoming god, Alastair becoming Therion, as he draws closer to me. His claws scrape against my cheek, down the line of my jaw. “Lacrimosa. You broke your promise.”
“Therion—” I rasp, a tightness at my throat. Clutching at my neck, I feel a slippery ribbon of kelp, bound like a choker. I’m fighting to speak, to breathe. “Please, I—”
I scrabble at the kelp strand, trying to break it. My other hand is fisted in the front of Alastair’s shirt. I’m falling, falling, everything out of control, and I’m so afraid.
On my finger, my betrothal ring is heavy as an iron weight. I turn it so the stone faces my palm. I clench my fist, feel the salt crystal digging into my skin. A tremor goes through me. My teeth snap together, my vision blackens. I drag Alastair against me, as though we are drowning, caught together at the heart of a violent sea.
When the darkness clears, I’m on the chaise in the Saltswan library, my head in Camille’s lap. Alastair sits at the other end, his knees folded up against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them. I press a hand to my throat; there’s nothing there, only skin scraped raw by my own nails.
I sit up slowly, all of me aching, and look around the room. The window is clear, no kelp or lapping ocean. The rain has slowed now, the noise of the storm overlaid by the crackle of the fireplace. Both Camille and Alastair look pale, frightened. “Did you see—” I begin, and Camille nods, stricken.
“Please tell me you spoke to your brothers,” she says, “and they know exactly how to stop all of this.”
Mournfully, I shake my head. “I couldn’t get through. The phone isn’t working.”
“The lines must be down because of the storm,” Alastair says.
I shift down the chaise, reach hesitantly for him. “Are you all right?”
He looks at me over his drawn-up knees. His gaze is mismatched, the shard of amber left behind by Therion like a spark of flame. A streak of blood is drying on his cheek. “I’ve felt better.”
I slouch down beside him, let my head drop against his shoulder. Twisting at my ring, I feel the bruised, tender place on my palm where the crystal pressed in. “I need to find a way to reach Therion, to speak to him, before this happens again. Before he hurts you, or Camille. I don’t believe that he’s banished, no matter what Hugo did. Otherwise, how could he be appearing this way?”
“And why didn’t he appear when we wanted him to, at the altar?” Camille adds.
Hating to ask, but knowing I must, I turn to Alastair. “Would Hugo be able to help? Considering he started all of this? I know you said he must have gone back to the Salt Priests, but perhaps he’s still nearby.” I think of the face outside my window, the retreating figure in the arbor. The thought of Hugo here, a present threat, fills me with a queasy panic. But I force it down. “If there’s a chance he could help, we should seek him out.”
Alastair rubs at the dried blood on his cheek. He looks reluctant, pained, as he offers, “We could drive to the Salt Priest compound and find him.”
I push myself up from the chaise, too restless to remain still. As I pace around the room, past the orderly leather spines of books, the rain-streaked window, I imagine us leaving Verse in Marcus Felimath’s beetle-black car. Driving to the far end of the peninsula where the Salt Priests live.
I lean my elbows against the windowsill, letting out a breath that fogs the glass.
I feel as lost as the night at Marchmain when Damson and I fought. I already gave up so much on that night; with my expulsion I let Damson and Jeune take everything from me, the entire future I’d worked toward. And now, caught by the force of Therion’s anger, the small amount of control I thought I’d gained when I agreed to marry him has slipped away.
I refuse to stay like this, small and afraid, the same girl who was forced out of the life she’d built. “I don’t know if it would make things better or worse to attract the Salt Priests’ attention even more than I already have. But I’d rather go there, or to Therion himself, if it could solve this. Even if it meant I was in more danger.”
The glass of the window is cold from the storm. I push myself away from the sill, going back toward the fireplace. My satchel lies on the floor near the chaise, the buckles fallen open, its contents spilled. The obsidian mirror, half-unwrapped. Alastair’s copy of The Neriad. As I walk past, my foot nudges the edge of the mirror.
I look down at it. The opaque glass reflects the light from the fireplace, a muted blur of shifting colors. It makes me want to climb out of my skin.
“When we pray to Therion, we’re reaching out to him, offering a piece of ourselves to the chthonic world,” I say. “But what if we could find a way to do the opposite? To bring him closer to us, rather than taking ourselves to him?”
Camille looks from me to Alastair. “Would that be possible?”
Alastair’s brow is creased in thought. I wait for him to tell me it’s a terrible idea, but he only reaches down and picks up The Neriad. Opening the book, he turns through the pages until he reaches a heavily annotated section. Eyes narrowed at the typeset lines, he begins to recite in Tharnish.
His voice is slow, reverent. It feels as though all the shadows in the room uncurl at its sound; the fire shifts and flickers in time with the rhythm of his words. Unprompted, he repeats the lines, translating them for Camille and me. “Tear away the veil at the heart of the woods, lay yourself bare on the boughs of a golden tree. Let us be unstrung down to our bones, loosened from the world. Under the open air we shall seek the gods.”
He speaks haltingly as he concentrates on the translation. The words drift over me like early petals pulled down by the wind. It’s as though I can see the Arriscane woods, not on the clifftop beside my cottage, but growing inside of the library with us. Flowers unfurling against the shelves, vines woven between the books.
I think of the forest. Leaves stirred by air that carries the scent of the far-off ocean, the hush of distant waves against the cliffside. Much closer to the golden woods of The Neriad than a tidal cave or the depths of the mine.
“The forest on the clifftop,” I say, and inside my chest it feels like a knot has been untied, like I can breathe again. “We’ll call to Therion at the heart of the woods.”
Alastair and Camille both dip their heads in agreement. Alastair touches his upper arm. His fingers press down through his shirtsleeve, as though feeling the scar left from when his arm was broken. His expression is dark, determined. “If that doesn’t work,” he says quietly, “then we go to the Salt Priests.”
Camille stretches her arms overhead. “I would ask what’s the worst that could happen, but it feels like tempting fate.” Grimly, she laughs. Then, reaching beneath the cushion of the chaise, she takes out a bottle of wine. “For tonight: This is my suggestion.”
“Where did you get that?” Alastair asks, brows raised.
“From the wine rack in Father’s study.” When he starts to protest, she waves a hand. “Don’t worry, I rearranged the bottles; he’ll never notice.”
“Tomorrow, then,” I say. It makes me shiver, the finality of this choice. I remember how it felt when I held the mirror that night in my cottage when Therion spoke through Alastair. The loss of control, the way I began to vanish, drowning beneath the rising water. I’m hot and restless, afraid to try, but knowing I have to face this.
Camille slips her arm around my waist, leaning her chin on my shoulder. Alastair opens the wine and pours it out into three empty teacups that he takes from a shelf near the window. We sit, bathed in the firelight, the three of us with our stolen wine, a silk-wrapped mirror, and our desperate plans.
The words Alastair recited echo over and over in my mind. Unstring our bones; loosen from the world. I think of how it felt to be swept up in the intoxication of brazier smoke and indigo liquor. How it will be to lose myself again, with Alastair and Camille at my side.
I know I’d rather call out the danger than wait for it to appear. If Damson showed me anything, it’s that the worst hurt doesn’t always come with open violence. Instead, there is tenderness before you’re devoured. And I’d rather summon Therion, and face him once and for all, than be haunted in this way.