Other than a brief announcement, there is no explanation for Deena’s absence. Perhaps even more disconcerting is the lack of concern around her departure. It’s strange how, even with the loss of one of our own, life goes on so easily.
That afternoon, I return to my room to find Declan waiting outside my door. He’s dressed in a lightweight, blue sweater, and leans against the vestibule wall, looking more casual than I’ve yet seen him. No collars, no pins, no air of pretense. His hair is mussed, and he hasn’t shaved. I’m not sure what to make of this version of him, or which story to believe of Deena’s departure.
“Hi,” I say, uncertain of my words, or what to do with my awkward hands. I tuck them into the sides of my skirt, as if there were pockets. He pushes upright and nods, offering me an easy smile.
“How are you?”
“Fine,” I say, standing at arm’s length from the doorway. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see if you’d join me for a walk,” he says. I wanted to nap, and return to the library. I’ve never had the luxury of reading for fun, and delving into new worlds is intoxicating. Sunlight streams through the thick-paned window at the end of the hall, painting the floor in warm yellows and whites. It’s inviting, I’ll admit, but do I really want to be alone with him after what happened to Deena?
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
“Do what?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.
“I appreciate the gesture, but you don’t have to keep up appearances.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think twice.
“We covered this, ” he says, stepping closer. “I want to get to know you.” The slight change of our bodies inching closer sends my senses into a frenzy. Suddenly, I’m hyper aware of the charged air between us—and of his bracelet around my wrist.
“That’s very sweet, but we could just do that here,” I say. His eyes go wide, and I realize what it must sound like. “In the building,” I add quickly, embarrassed heat rushing into my cheeks. “Indoors, is all I meant.”
“I know what you meant,” he says with a breathy laugh. “But it’s such a nice day, and I don’t get outside enough. I thought you might like some fresh air. The library can’t be the best source for that.” I straighten as my head clouds with a mix of murky outrage and self-consciousness.
“You’ve been spying on me?”
“No, not spying,” he says, shaking his head. “But you do seem to like it in there—don’t you?” His gray eyes are foggy and uncertain. He bites his bottom lip, shoving his hands into his pockets. Is it possible he’s nervous? Something softens inside me.
“Yes, I do.”
“Good,” he says. “So you could use some fresh air.” I look out the window again—it does look beautiful. Still, I don’t know. There are no doors to lock outside, but that never stopped CJ. I hesitate, stuck between my better instincts and the desire to answer the hopeful look in Declan’s eyes.
“Okay,” I say. It’ll be okay, right?
“Really?” He looks stunned, as though he expected me to turn him away.
“Sure. Why not? It does look like a nice day.”
“Excellent,” he says, flapping a fist against his hip. I raise my eyebrows as he hops slightly and smiles, motioning for me to follow.
“This way,” he says, and I fall into step beside him. At the window, we turn down a short hall that leads to a back staircase. The concrete steps have no risers, and I can see down through them. It seems oddly unfinished when compared to the rest of the estate. But then, luxury is rarely wasted on things nobody important will see. At the bottom, he opens a door to the outside, and I squint into the too-bright afternoon.
“I thought I’d show you around,” he says, blinking a few times before shading his eyes with his hand.
“Okay,” I say, taking in the expanse of the brittle, late-summer grounds splayed out before us.
“This is the West Lawn,” he says, rolling up his sleeves to expose ropy, tanned forearms. “I used to play here as a kid. Lots of space to run.” I smile at the simple image of his childhood and inhale, long and slow. The garden-fresh air fills my lungs with pollen and a hint of humidity. Declan smiles, watching me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “You just seem much more comfortable.”
I smile and shrug. “I guess I am.”
I let my arms swing and soak in the freedom of space, the looseness of momentum coursing through my body. He’s right. For the first time since I’ve arrived, I feel relaxed.
“Did you spend much time outdoors on the peninsula?” he asks. Mention of the peninsula catches me off guard, and my shoulders tense, the moment broken.
“Yes, actually,” I say, my voice tighter than I’d like it to be.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I went to and from the ports every day, running errands. I got to know the people at the markets and spent most of my mornings outside, traveling to and from. I liked being near the water, seeing the ships come to and fro, listening to the waves. The feel of the sea breeze on my cheeks—” I cut myself off, feeling foolish for having revealed so much. But he doesn’t look annoyed, or embarrassed for me. Instead, he looks like he wants me to keep talking, like he wants to know this part of me. “It was nice,” I say. And it’s true. It was the nicest part of my life on the peninsula.
“And now, you’re stuck in a library.”
“It’s different, but I wouldn’t say ‘stuck,’” I say, twisting my hands together.
“Your benefactor must have sensed you needed time outdoors,” he says. The thought of Conrad making any decision based upon my needs is laughable. I shrug and keep my thoughts to myself. I don’t want to sound ungrateful. Or unhappy. I don’t want him digging for details, finding out about CJ.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, nodding to my hip. My hand is pressed against my scar. I pull it away and shake my head, forcing a smile.
“Nothing,” I say. I swing my arms across my chest and squeeze before I drop them to my sides. Hopefully, he’ll let it go, assume it was an unconscious gesture that meant nothing.
“Can I ask you something?” I change the subject, just in case.
“Sure,” he says, but his eyes still linger on my hip.
“What happened to Deena?” His toe catches in the grass. He stumbles, but recovers so quickly, it’s almost as if it didn’t happen.
“I don’t quite know, to be honest. She asked to leave early this morning, and we couldn’t convince her to stay.”
“That’s strange,” I say. He nods, squinting into the distance. “I heard a rumor you two were close?”
“You shouldn’t put much weight in rumors,” he says. His voice is flat, but his cheeks flush a flattering shade of pink. I don’t press him. It’s obvious something did happen between them, but a boy who blushes at even the suggestion of impropriety is not something I’m used to. I don’t know what to do with it, or how I should respond. Fortunately, he seems content to let the conversation drop. We walk quietly, side by side. It’s nice, and I close my eyes, letting the sunlight warm my face.
“I thought we’d go there,” he says, pointing to a large wall of green. I nod, and we walk up the gentle, sloping hill. The crest yields a better view of the grounds behind us as a whole. Several other limestone buildings dot the landscape, but none are quite as impressive as the grand estate. I can just make out the Rhododendron Garden to our right, and up ahead is the famous hedge maze.
“My grandfather built this,” Declan says as we approach. “Well, designed it, at least. He had it built for my father and uncles.” A breeze rustles the top of the hedge wall, the foliage absorbing and disguising any evidence of life within.
“They had a lot of energy,” he says. A fond smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. “The lawns weren’t enough to hold their interest. Neither were the gardens. My grandmother worried they’d end up at the river.”
“The river?” I ask. His smile widens into the far reaches of his round face, and it’s obvious how much he likes this story.
“The estate’s border extends all the way to the river. There are walls around the rest of it, but the architect decided the river was wild enough to leave unwalled. Truthfully, though, maintaining walls along the river and its rapids was just too dangerous and expensive to be feasible. It’s rocky and fast and surprisingly deep—near impossible to navigate, much less penetrate. The walls funnel down to the riverbank, but it’s even less safe from this side, so Grandfather built this hedge maze. It started out small, as a way to keep my father and uncles entertained and away from the banks of the river, but it grew and turned into a sort of last defense. Anyone who breaches the grounds from the river then has to navigate the maze—and over the years, extra defenses have been added to the hedges. Honestly, we don’t even patrol the exit anymore.” We’re right in front of it now. It towers above us, rising at least twelve feet high, and blocks the northern wind, making the day feel even warmer. A sense of unease settles in my shoulders, and tension radiates through my chest. Declan heads to the entrance, but my feet don’t move.
“Are you okay?” he asks, turning back when he notices I’m not beside him. I nod, but it’s too quick, like a leaf trembling in the wind.
“I think I’d rather not go in there.” My voice is strained and uncertain, like my heart has already given up the fight. His smile falters, and then fades, and his cloudy gray eyes become clear, understanding something that I don’t. He looks at the ground and nods.
“Okay,” he says. My heart stalls, but then resumes its percussive beat. The air around me is still, and I feel like I might fall.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. I won’t force you to do something you don’t want to.” His words are soft, but emphatic, a clear note of sadness woven into the timbre of his voice. The tension in my shoulders moves up my neck, forming a tight band across the back of my head. I wonder what it would feel like to let it snap.
“What if I tell you what I had in mind?” he asks, taking a cautious step closer; he places his foot with the same care one might use to approach a frightened skunk. The air tightens between us—I don’t trust it. I want to run. But then Conrad’s voice is in my head, telling me to do what he wants. I nod in a quick, tight arch, and he exhales, relaxing slightly.
“I wanted to show you some places in the maze, but I also wanted to get away from prying eyes.” As if on cue, laughter carries to us on the wind. I know there are multiple pairs of eyes on us. We passed several of the disinterested guards in dark uniforms incrementally dotting the grounds. Of course, we’re being watched. So my choice is to be trapped in a dark, narrow maze with a man I don’t trust, or run away, and fast-track my return to the peninsula.
I close my eyes and bite my tongue. How did I let myself get here? What kind of a choice is that?
“Okay,” I say, but it sounds like a question. I open my eyes, and he’s smiling, radiating kindness. He takes my hand, and I walk with him to the entrance, my pulse pounding in my ears. The sunlight dims as soon as we cross the threshold, the inside of the maze darker and at least ten degrees cooler. The walls are taller than they look from the outside, their height both oppressive and a welcome, shady relief.
Waxy, flat leaves and prickly conifers knit together to form the walls. Everything is filtered through the green, and I swear the air is lusher.
“We’ll turn here,” he says, pausing at an opening to our left. I glance back at the bright frame of the entrance, swallow my racing heart, and nod. He turns and leads me down the path.
“I can’t tell you how many times I got lost in here as a kid,” he says. “They had to send people to find me a few times. My mother hated it. She was convinced that if I got through, I’d never come back. Mothers, right?” I ignore the pinch in my chest. I don’t know much about mothers—God knows mine didn’t fret over me—but I can’t imagine Siobhan fretting over Declan’s safety, either.
“My father had this one advisor who was kind to me. I didn’t really know what he did—he was a merchant of some kind and would bring me trinkets from his travels. He was visiting one of the times I got lost. It was dark by the time I got back, and he was with my father when I returned.
“Father was angry, but the advisor, he was always so good-natured. He said something like, ‘it’s healthy to explore,’ which didn’t mean much to me in the moment—I knew I was in for a long punishment. But then he reached into his pocket and handed me something. It was tiny in his palm, but felt heavy and important in mine.
“‘If you can learn to find True North, you’ll never be lost,’ he told me.” Declan stops walking and reaches into his pocket. He retrieves a flat disk made from aged brass. It fits neatly in his palm. He presses a clasp and it springs open, displaying a flat black surface with a gold needle. The needle spins, and then settles, pointing in the direction we’re heading.
“What is it?” I ask, feeling a weighty sense of certainty in the needle’s declaration.
“It’s a compass,” he says. “It points north. Here, try it.” He places it in my hand. It’s heavier than I expect. I watch the needle resettle, pointing in the same direction, and then move my hand around, watching as the needle stays true. Above it, the inside of the lid is black, with a series of dots and lines in a strange design.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“A map of the sky,” he says. “He told me that if I ever got lost at night, the stars would work the same way, so long as I knew which was which.” He leans in and points to a dot near the top. “See that one? Sailors call it Kraken’s Eye. It’s the northernmost star—it sits over the northern pole. Find it, and you’ll always know which way is north.” I look up at the clear, starless afternoon sky, and then glance behind us again. His story, the softness of his voice, and the gentle breeze is soothing, placating my anxiety.
“These two, here,” he says, pointing at two dots that are as close to touching as they can be without making contact, “are called Liberius and—oh, I can never remember the name of the other one. Anyway, they line up once a year, burning brighter together than any of the others in the sky. That’s how you find True South.” I look at the stars and try to imagine what they must look like together.
“Come on. It’s not much further, ” he says, walking ahead. “It’s just around the corner.”
I hesitate for a moment and brush my finger over the compass’s open face. The needle shifts ever so slightly, shivering under the vibration of my touch. If it can stay true, then maybe so can I. I suck in a bracing breath and follow, catching up to where Declan waits. The walls seem like they’re getting taller, but the compass remains constant. We keep walking, and as the high walls protect us from the late afternoon heat, a slight chill rolls down my exposed arms. The scent of roses brushes my nose.
“Here it is,” he says, turning into a small courtyard. Everywhere, roses are in full bloom. They climb the hedges, dotting the deep green walls with soft peaches, vibrant yellows, and creamy whites. Freestanding bushes climb a trellis over a stone bench, and the slightest bit of warmth skates in from the open air above, filling the space with the scent of summer. I study the wide, flat, variegated petals of the peach beauties nearest to me.
“This is incredible,” I whisper, afraid I’ll break something if I’m any louder.
“Yeah, we hit it on a good day.”
“Do they bloom year round?”
“No, they go through a dormant season. But this time of year, they’re particularly lovely.” I nod and close my eyes, taking in a deep breath. When I open them, Declan’s watching me with fragile intrigue.
“I like it,” I say, and his shoulders relax. “Very much.” I let my hand close around the compass and move around the garden, examining bloom after bloom. When I reach the center, he’s there, sitting on the bench. He pats the spot next to him and cautiously, I join him.
“I didn’t think the hedge maze was open to the public,” I say.
“It’s not.”
“But this—” I motion around me, coming up empty for an adequate word to describe the garden. “It’s just sitting here? What’s it for?” I ask.
“My mother.”
“I thought she didn’t like the maze?”
“She doesn’t,” he says. “My father had it planted so she might come around to it. You noticed, I’m sure, that it’s very simple to get here?” I nod, and my neck tightens. The ease with which we arrived here is not a relief. Despite its beauty, it’s still an alcove that seems to swallow sound. It’s not a shed, but splinters could easily be traded for thorns.
“Does she come here?” I ask, trying to stay focused on the conversation and not on the anxious pounding of my heart.
“No.” He shakes his head and gives a little chuckle.
“It’s so quiet,” I say, subtle uneasiness creeping up my back. “Do you come here often?”
“Sometimes,” he says.
“Do you bring girls here?” I ask. I don’t know why I ask it. My cheeks flush as soon as the words leave my mouth.
“Not usually . . .” He hesitates, and then blinks slowly. “Once. A few years ago. It was different, though.”
“What made it different?” I listen to the soft rustle of petals in an even softer breeze.
“I thought I loved her.” His words are so simple, but the weight of them crushes the breeziness of the space, sucks the oxygen from it. My chest feels tight, and I’m not sure if it’s from the relief that I’m different, that this isn’t his version of CJ’s shed, or if it’s something else.
“Is it possible to think you love someone, but not actually love them?” I’m genuinely curious, and I think he sees that, but he averts his eyes, squinting as though in pain.
“I was young. I thought I was in love. But now, I know I wasn’t seeing clearly.” He goes quiet again, and I nod to the garden around us, looking for a change of topic.
“Your father must really love your mother to have done all this,” I say. He squints again, but allows the shift.
“I don’t really know how much they love each other and how much it’s convenient to let people believe they do.”
“That’s sad,” I say, scrutinizing the tiny cracks in his facade—the uncomfortable pull on the right side of his mouth, the mismatched height of his eyebrows, the foggy shine to his eyes.
“That’s political marriage.”
“Didn’t he choose her?” He shrugs, and an uneasy wince pinches his features.
“As much as anyone can in this place.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?” he asks with a tight laugh.
“You’re expected to do the same?” He stares at me, his eyes locking. He nods slowly.
“Yes.”
“And if you don’t?”
“I don’t think that’s an option. There’s too much money wrapped up in this now. People are getting restless.” I shift in my seat, hearing something very different from what Beck said the other night. I want to dig into it, ask for more, but something catches me and holds me back, something sad and hollow.
“You shouldn’t be forced to be with someone because it’s inconvenient that you’re not,” I say, and then stop. The weight of my words feels heavy enough to drown. I slide my fingers over the edges of the compass, pressing them tight against the heavy brass.
Declan shrugs, staring at the ground. He pushes his toe into the dirt, his hands wrapped tight around the edges of the bench. “I don’t know. Maybe I should just pick someone, get it over with. It’s starting to feel like the same stuff, different year. Over and over again.” I sit quietly and wait for him to continue. His gaze flickers up to mine. “I meet everyone, and there’s . . . hope. But then the advisors have their say, and there’s politics over who I can sit next to, and who I can spend time with. I don’t get to see the ones who aren’t politically important . . .” He hesitates for a moment, and an uneasy feeling radiates from my gut. “I can’t help but wonder if I’m missing out on something.” He closes his eyes against the warm breeze. I’m quiet, unsure of what I should say.
“I don’t want to be forced into a loveless marriage because it’s politically advantageous,” he says, sounding less defeated than he has since this conversation started. “I also don’t want someone to be forced to marry me.”
“Nobody should be forced into that,” I say, without thinking. He blinks and looks up at me, his gray eyes clear.
“Should is a pretty lofty word,” he says, a small smile curling into one side of his mouth. I shake my head, biting my lip as guilty shame burns my cheeks and ears.
“I don’t think you have to worry about that.” He looks both relieved and disappointed, his features suddenly weathered and aged.
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know why these women are here. Is it because they want to be? Or because someone decided they looked a certain way and could succeed? Not everyone is as candid as you’ve been. I don’t know who to trust. I don’t know what they’re feeling.”
“So then ask them,” I say. He takes a deep breath.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” I ask, the skin on the back of my neck prickling.
“What do you want at the end of this?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” My fingers tighten around the compass.
“Where do you want to go? Do you want to stay here in Nordania? Or go overseas?”
“I . . .” I think about it for a moment. “I don’t know. Nobody has ever asked me that before.”
“Oh,” he says, turning his body toward me.
“I don’t—” A thick, wet emotion rises in my throat, and I struggle to push it away. “I don’t really have any skills. I don’t know what I could do on my own, but I don’t want to be a political pawn, or shipped away to marry a stranger.” A tremble ripples through my jaw, and before I realize it, his hand is on my cheek. I freeze as he gently slides his thumb across my cheekbone, pressing his palm against my jaw.
“You won’t marry a stranger. I won’t let that happen.”
“Why?” I ask.
He shrugs, and his cheeks pinken as he says, “Because you matter to me.”
My breath catches, and I know what’s going to happen before it does. He closes the distance, and his lips meet mine. It’s nothing like what I expect. CJ’s kiss was an assault on my mouth, rough and violent. Declan’s is something different. His lips are soft and tentative, brushing against mine, coaxing a response. They feel warm and kind and surprisingly . . . good. He hesitates for a moment, pulling back, and I can feel his breath on my lips. A confused torrent of emotion crashes through me. I shouldn’t want this. I don’t want this. I know what happens next. But familiar memories collide with genuine curiosity, and I don’t know what to do.
He leans in. I meet him halfway, and this time, our lips join with a spark. The heat from his kiss spreads quickly through me, and I want more. I place my hands on his chest and let him in, lose myself to the moment, to him. But then he slants his mouth over mine, deepening the kiss. I taste mint and something sweet as his arms wrap around my back, pressing me against him, and my lungs can’t expand. Suddenly, I feel trapped, locked in his arms. I try to turn away as panic swells in my veins. Everything around us goes fuzzy.
I push him off me and lurch backward. His eyes are wide as I launch off the bench, confusion and hurt pooling in their depths. His features blur and nausea roils as I inhale a phantom wind of cocoa butter and whiskey. I run, feeling the tug of my skirt as it catches on a thorny bush, followed by a sharp cut to my knee as I rush from the courtyard.
“Arden!” His voice follows me as I race around the curved path. I bound up the main corridor, letting the brightness of unobstructed daylight guide my way. I push through the maze’s entrance and tear across the grounds, blinded by a combination of blazing daylight and gut-wrenching shame.