Summersend arrives with a daylight moon, a neat, silvered shape in the still-bright sky. In my room, Clover helps me fasten the back of my dress. She stitched it for me, overworking the embroidered pattern with a new design. Tiny stars—white over white—endless, pale constellations. When she finishes the last button, she smiles at me, our faces reflected together in the mirror glass.
Distantly, I remember my mother dressing up for the bonfire, how I watched my father help her. He tied the sash at her waist, then leaned in to kiss her as she squirmed away, laughing. I touch my hair, then run my fingers lightly over the curve of my cheeks. Her hair was darker than mine, and straight, but sometimes when the light tilts against my face a certain way, I can see her eyes, the way her mouth went crooked when she smiled.
“There. You’re perfect.” Clover brushes her hands over my skirts, tidying them. “You know, the whole house has felt so different, so lived in, since you and Arien came here.”
I turn to look around the room. The window is open, the lace curtains tied back. My collection of polished stones is on the mantel, next to a vase of wildflowers. The little icon Arien painted for me is propped beside my bed. “It certainly looks different.”
Clover picks up the wreath I wove from the vines that grow near my garden. Carefully, she sets it on my unbound hair. She wears a similar one, and her hair, without the braid, falls down her back in golden-brown waves.
“Do you think Thea will be at the bonfire tonight?” she asks airily.
“Of course she will. Isn’t her father the keeper?” I raise my brows at her, grinning. “You know, if you end up together in the bonfire line, you’ll get to hold her hand.”
“Violeta, you’re such a schemer.” Clover keeps her eyes fixed to the mirror, adjusting the wreath. A reluctant smile spreads over her face. “I like her. I really like her. But how can I ask anything from her, when I spend all my time here, doing this?”
She holds her arms wide, displaying the sigils on them.
“It might work in your favor. How many other girls will she meet who can cast magic and live beside a poisoned lake?”
“Oh?” She arches a brow at me. “Is that why you like Rowan so much?”
I laugh, but my cheeks feel hot. “I mean, he made such a good impression with all that scowling and threatening.”
“You know what he called you when you first arrived?” Clover deepens her voice into an eerily accurate imitation of Rowan. “That wretched little pest. But he blushed whenever he said it.”
“Truly what I’ve always dreamed of—a boy who blushes as he insults me.”
“I’m glad you didn’t run away that night after the first ritual.” Clover puts her arm around my waist as her face settles into seriousness. “I’m glad you and Arien decided to stay here.”
“I am, too.”
“Despite the fact that there’s a death god lurking around?”
“Despite everything,” I say, smiling. She rests her chin against my shoulder for a breath. Then she reaches into her pocket, her face suddenly turned shy, and draws out a small, wrapped parcel. “Here. I made this for you.”
I unfold the paper carefully. It’s a ribboned bracelet, embroidered with leaves and tiny violet flowers. I run my fingers over the intricate pattern of her clever stitches. “Oh, Clover, it’s beautiful.”
“Don’t cry,” she says quickly. “Or I’ll cry, too.”
I hold out my wrist so she can tie it for me. “Thank you.”
She picks up a lantern and lights it with a flare of magic, then takes my hand. Together, we go out of my room and down the stairs.
My skirts spill around me, a cascade of lace. My white dress is made of translucent layers that shift color in the light: cream, silver, pearl. We cross the entrance hall, then step out onto the drive. Arien is already outside. He wears a new shirt, the white linen decorated with a pattern of branches that curve sharply over his shoulders. He has a wreath set lopsidedly over his curls. He steps back to let us pass but avoids my eyes. He doesn’t smile.
We’ve hardly spoken since the day I told him about my connection to the Lord Under. He and Clover have worked endlessly over the past few weeks, while Rowan has been in the village to prepare for the fire. They’ve filled countless notebooks with sigils and walked back and forth along the shore of the lake. Tried and failed and tried again to find another way—any way—that they can cast a different spell that will mend the Corruption at the next ritual.
I’ve helped by adding my own, faint magic to Arien’s shadows when he practices one of the new spells. I’ve watched them grow tired and cross and more hopeless. And all the time, I’ve silently weighed and measured everything I have, wondering what I might offer to the Lord Under in exchange for his help.
Now, beside Arien in the drive with the ivy-wrapped house behind us, my chest aches with a heavy, uneasy feeling. The space between us feels like a wound that can’t heal over.
“You both look perfect,” Clover says. She smiles at me, then turns to adjust Arien’s collar. “Look at you. You’re like a prince from one of Violeta’s stories.”
She sets her lantern carefully onto the seat of the wagon that waits in the drive. Florence and Rowan already walked to the village earlier, to help with the preparations. Clover climbs into the wagon and takes the reins. The wagon bed is piled with branches and tangles of greenery that I’ve cut from the garden: our contribution for the bonfire. The horses—the same ones we rode here, from our cottage—have more of the starry flowers braided into their manes.
I step toward the wagon. Arien catches hold of my arm and looks up at Clover. “You go ahead,” he tells her. “Leta and I will walk.”
She raises a brow. “Really?” Realization crosses her face as she looks between us. “Oh. Yes, of course.”
She hums to the horses, and they start to trot. Arien and I watch the wagon grow smaller as it follows the drive away from the house. Once it is out of sight, we set off.
The now-empty house behind us feels hollowed out, with only a single lantern lit in the frontmost window. All around us, the tall, pale trees hush and whisper as the hot evening air stirs their leaves.
With all that’s happened since our arrival, this will be the first time we’ve left the estate. We walk through the front garden, past where I took Arien after the first ritual. When I wanted to leave, and Arien insisted we stay. So much has changed since that night, and yet so much is the same. I’m still fighting to keep him safe.
We pass beneath the iron gateway, and the drive gives way to a path that widens slowly to a well-worn road. The land slopes upward, and the forest that surrounds the estate thins to fields: almond groves and apple orchards. We walk through stripes of faded shadow and pastel sunset, and I think of how beautiful it will look in Harvestfall, when the leaves turn to crimson.
Arien walks beside me. Neither of us speaks for a long time. Everything between us feels so tangled, but I don’t know how to unknot it.
Finally, I reach out and take his hand. “Arien, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what, exactly?” His fingers tighten around mine. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road. “The lies you told? The secrets you kept?”
“It does sound like a lot, when you put it like that.” I try to smile, but he still won’t look at me. “Yes, for the lies and for the secrets. I’m sorry for everything.”
He huffs out a frustrated breath. “I know what you want to do. You want to make a bargain with the Lord Under.”
“I want to make sure no one else will be hurt. And if he can help me, then—”
“You and Rowan are both so determined to throw your lives away. Look at what he’s done, trying to fight the Corruption on his own. He’s poisoned himself. He’s made himself into a monster. And you—” Roughly, he turns my hand palm up. Bares the crescent mark on my skin. “You did this.”
I snatch back my hand. “What else was I supposed to do?”
“You didn’t even think, Leta. You act like my only choice is to stay back, that it doesn’t matter if you’re hurt because I’ll be safe.” He bites his lip. I can tell he’s trying not to cry. “You’re my sister. I want you to be safe, too.”
“He’s helped me before.” I try not to look at Arien’s hands. His arms. The thin, pale scars left from when Clover mended him are as delicate as embroidery. “He saved you.”
“You saved me.” Arien’s mouth curves into a sad smile. “What you did in the woods—what you asked the Lord Under, and how it changed me—I don’t blame you, Leta. But this is different. He’ll want more than your magic for this. You know that.”
“No, he won’t take my magic since he needs me to use it.” I run my hand over my arm, trace the outlines of the marks on my skin. “Although … he might change his mind once he knows I draw messy sigils.”
“You do realize you’re not at all funny.”
“Maybe he’ll want my sense of humor. Then you won’t have to listen to my jokes anymore.”
“Leta.” Arien grabs hold of my hand again. “He took Rowan’s whole family. What do you have to offer that can equal that?”
I glance back over my shoulder, to where the road stretches behind us. We’ve gone far from the estate now. All around us are only trees and fields and the darkening sky. I think again of what Arien said after the first failed ritual. When I tried to make him leave, and he insisted that we stay. When he showed me the sigil on his wrist and told me, I couldn’t do anything to help you before, but now I can.
At the time, I hadn’t understood how or why he’d want to use his magic in such a dangerous way. But now I’ve gotten that same chance. A way to make up for all the time I’ve spent powerless.
“I want to help.” My voice goes out soft into the trees. “I want to do this.”
Arien scrubs his wrist across his face, and his eyes fill with tears. “At least give us some time before you summon him again. We can still figure out another way. Please, just tell me you won’t.”
“I won’t.” I wrap my arms around him. The other words hang unspoken between us. Not yet. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m still so mad at you.” He takes a deep, unsteady breath to swallow back his tears. “Why do you have to be so—”
“Terrible, awful, the most foolish sister ever?” I hold Arien tighter and realize he’s grown since we came to the estate. “Hey,” I mutter against his chest. “Who said you were allowed to get so tall?”
I reach up and run my hand through his hair, knocking the wreath askew as I mess up his curls. He shoves me away, laughing. I trip over my feet, and he catches me before I can fall. I lean against him and laugh, too.
Things don’t feel entirely mended between us, but they’re a little softer. By the time we reach the village, the sun has set. The cottages around the square are black silhouettes, their windows lit by reflected lamplight. It looks much the same as when we passed through on our way to Lakesedge. Thatch-roofed cottages, a grove of trees, the altar at one side. The unlit bonfire is at the center of the square, the pile of branches and flowers and leaves circled by granite stones.
Everyone is dressed in white, hair unbound and wreathed with leaves or flowers. The crowd is a hum of voices—chatter, laughter, calls of greeting. It’s the first time in months that we’ve been around so many people. It’s dizzying to be among the noise of the crowd, after all the silence of the estate. My skin is warmer. My heart beats faster.
Arien and I pause beside the row of tables that border the square. They’re laden with food. Marzipan cakes shaped like petals. Almond crescents dusted with frost-pale sugar. Enamelware pitchers of cider, spiced with peppercorn and cinnamon.
I take a cup of cider. Anise flowers float on the surface like fragrant stars. I sip. The sweetness of it spreads through me until the air wavers a little. I blink as the light shimmers. Then I see Rowan, half-hidden in the shadows beside the altar.
He looks so much like he did that day in our cottage. He’s dressed all in black, with the hood of his cloak pulled low over his face. His gloved hands are clenched at his sides, and his eyes are fixed on the ground.
Then he looks up. Our eyes meet. He pushes back the hood of his cloak in an abrupt gesture. His hair is unadorned, the top half tied back into a knot. Light from the lanterns outlines him in gold. His mouth parts, as though he means to speak, but he only stares at me, wordless, as Arien and I move toward him.
“Leta.” His voice goes soft. “You—you look—”
I reach and tuck back a strand of his hair that’s come loose. “You forgot your wreath. Want me to make one for you? I can get some vines from the bonfire before it’s alight.”
“No.”
“Don’t think about it too hard,” I tease. “You could at least say No, thank you.”
His mouth tilts into a begrudging smile. He puts his hand lightly on my waist, drawing me closer, but then his face turns wary as he looks out into the crowd.
Florence walks toward us, followed by someone else—a tall, broad-shouldered man. After a few moments I realize I recognize him from Greymere. Keeper Harkness is even more serious than he was on the tithe day. He carries a basket of bundled pine-stem torches, each tied neatly at the end with twine, and passes them out as he moves through the square.
Thea and Clover trail behind, carrying another basket between themselves. In her long, pale dress, Thea is as beautiful as a crescent moon. Her curled black hair is crowned with summer roses, and her skirts are embroidered with a pattern of bellflowers. She and Clover both look shy and awkward, like they can’t think of what to say to each other.
Keeper Harkness reaches us, and sets his basket down near the altar. He dips his fingers into the salt beneath the icon, then drops a handful of petals across the wooden shelf. He glances at Rowan. “Lord Sylvanan. We’re almost ready.”
Rowan nods, but he doesn’t speak. Thea hands Arien a torch, then gives one to me with a confused, pleased smile. “Oh! I know you both from the tithe day! Whatever are you doing here?”
“They’re guests at the estate.” Clover adjusts her glasses and shakes back her hair. She gives Thea a proud look. “Arien and Violeta are my students.”
“You’re all alchemists?” Thea raises her eyebrows. She looks as though she can’t quite decide if she’s excited, or afraid. She bites her lip as her eyes drift toward Arien’s gloved hands. “Why aren’t you in the Maylands?”
“This is a special assignment.” I lean close and whisper conspiratorially, “Lord Sylvanan is going to use me for his next blood sacrifice.”
Thea lets out a startled laugh and steps back. She looks warily at Rowan before she slips into the crowd. He glares at me murderously.
Florence gives us both a look. “Shall we begin?”
“Please, before Leta says another word and we’re all chased out of here with pitchforks.” Rowan pulls at the tie that fastens his hair, tightening the knot. Then he picks up a torch from the basket and steps forward.
Everyone goes still, and a nervous current ripples through the crowd. It’s as though they had almost forgotten about him while he was in the shadows beside the altar. But now he’s stepped out into the light.
The villagers here aren’t as panicked as people were in Greymere. But the more I look around, the more I see signs of their fear. Garlands of rosemary and sage are strung protectively over windows, and there are scatters of salt across all the doorways. Every now and then, someone will raise their hands to their chest and draw their fingers across their heart.
The way they watch him, it’s the same way I looked at him, once. It’s strange now to see the fear I felt reflected on all those other faces.
And Rowan looks every part the monster they believe him to be.
He notes their fear, and he doesn’t flinch from it. He meets it unrelentingly with a hard, cold stare. The scars on his brow and jaw and throat seem to glow, crimson and raised. And every now and then, so swift it could almost be a flicker of lamplight, shadows shift beneath his skin. Threads of darkness unfurl then soften back to faint, blurred marks. The monster, the boy, the monster.
I take hold of his hand. He tenses, but after a breath, his fingers weave through mine. I run my thumb across his gloved palm.
He leans down to murmur to me, his voice low. “Do you think to hold my hand and show them all they shouldn’t be afraid of me?”
“Maybe.” I rise up on tiptoe, so I can murmur back. “Maybe I just want to be the girl who held the hand of a monster.”
He gives me a faint smile. He takes a torch and sets it to the altar candles. It springs alight with the sharp scent of pine. Then he moves out into the square. He doesn’t let go of my hand, so I follow him.
Everyone draws back as we come toward them, the crowd parting into halves. Rowan strides down the path left at the center. His cloak is a spill of ink, his gaze is remote, almost otherworldly. I walk beside him, the skirts of my gemstone dress rustling around me. I feel like a faerie creature from one of my books. Violet in the woods. A tangle of whispers follows us, a sound that’s half fear, half wonder.
Once we’ve reached the fire, there’s a moment of stillness before everyone begins to move, until they’ve formed a single line that spirals around the granite stones. Rowan holds out his torch to me. I feel the heat of the flames as he lights the bundle of pine in my hand. I turn to Arien, who smiles at me as his torch comes alight.
One by one, torch by torch, the firelight spreads. We move forward to set our torches into the pile of branches and leaves. The fire is slow at first, all smoke and acrid, new-burned greenery, then the wind catches it. Sparks weave up hungrily through the bonfire, until it shimmers and dances against the sunset sky.
The silence draws out, longer and longer, broken only by a scatter of whispers. This is the part of the bonfire where we sing the litany. In Greymere, the keeper would lead the chant. But tonight, of course, it will be Rowan. He looks back to the altar, and I feel his hand flinch. His fingers tighten against mine.
I remember what he told me, at the Midsummer observance. I don’t like to sing when people can hear me. And now there is a whole village ready to listen.
I lean over and whisper, “Should we do a blood sacrifice instead of the chant?”
He glares at me, but before he can speak, I start to sing. There’s a puzzled mutter in the crowd, and no one joins in. An embarrassed heat prickles me, because I’m used to my voice being woven into the sound of others. Alone, it rings out off-key, a note stuck somewhere between head and chest. But as I finish the first stanza, a voice beside me picks up the chant. Arien. Then Clover, then Florence.
For a breath, it’s just the four of us who sing. And I’m back in the garden, at the altar beneath the jacaranda tree. When I put my hands in the earth. When I let go of my magic and my truth, and light sparked through the ground. At the memory, a stillness comes over me. The crescent at my palm throbs. I picture a full moon. My magic kindled from a faint spark to a blaze as large as the Summersend fire. Light and heat and power.
More voices join the chant. The melody is discordant at first. But voice by voice, word by word, the litany weaves together like threads made into stitches. Soon the air is alight with song. The fire is on my cheeks, and petals wreathe my hair.
When my thoughts turn back to the night our cottage burned, I don’t try to push them down. Instead, I let myself remember my parents. The garden my father made with his alchemy. The firelight across our hearth. My mother’s voice, low and lulling, as she sang to Arien. How it felt to fall asleep beneath my patchwork quilt to the sound of my father’s stories.
My family is smoke and ash, and their souls sleep far in the world Below, but these memories inside me are vivid. They will never be gone.
I think of the magic that turns the world. I think of everyone I love, home and safe, once the Corruption is mended.
As the litany ends, the line breaks apart, and the crowd drifts out into the square. Arien catches hold of my hand and pulls me toward the table of sweets. I turn to look for Rowan, but he’s already gone back to the shadows beside the altar. Clover slips her arm around my waist. Thea is beside her, and she eyes me warily, as though she can’t decide if she wants to move closer or run away. “You’re … different, from when I saw you in Greymere.”
“Different?” I brush my hand over my skirts and laugh. “I have nicer clothes now, I guess.”
Clover shakes her head at the both of us. She looks at Thea and hesitates, then holds out her hand. “Come on, let’s go before your father sees us and starts worrying you’ll be Rowan’s next victim.”
Thea takes Clover’s hand and goes with her, wide eyed. Arien and I follow, laughing. The night passes in a rush of sugar and firelight, beneath a sky filled with handfuls of stars. Bonfire smoke laces the air, turns the world to a haze.
I’m tired and breathless, and everything feels like a dream. I find myself alone in the crowd. Clover and Thea sit together near one of the cottages, a platter of marzipan cakes between them. Arien is curled up beside Florence, his head on her shoulder and his eyes half-closed. I go back to the altar, where Rowan stands against the trees. He steps into the light when he sees me approach. Wordlessly, he takes my hand and leads me away from the crowd.
We walk past the fire and out of the square, into the orchard that encircles the village. We follow the rows for a long while, then finally stop in a space between two tall apple trees. We let go of each other’s hands and move apart. Rowan is still wrapped in his cloak, with the hood drawn down over his hair.
He picks a strand of leaves and starts to twist it through his fingers. “Thank you for singing instead of me.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
“I always wonder if it would be better for me to stay away.” He gives the leaves a final twist then lets the strand drop. “I don’t care that they whisper about me, or think I’m a monster. Really, it’s better for them to fear me.”
“Yes. It would be a shame to let anyone get too close. A terrible danger.”
“Is this advice on being kind to strangers from the prickliest creature I know?” He arches a brow at me. “Perhaps you can skip the jokes about blood sacrifices next time.”
“You have to admit it was a little funny.”
He smiles faintly, then looks down as his expression turns serious again. “The least I can do is try to be a half-decent lord in my father’s name. Even if they hate me or fear me. If I give up, then it feels like he died for nothing. A waste.” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know if that makes sense.”
“No, it does.” I run my hand over a nearby branch. The bark is rough beneath my fingers. “It’s harder to stay, sometimes, even if that’s the right thing.”
“Yes.”
“So how did you lead the chant before I was here?”
“Before?” His mouth lifts into a distant smile. “Elan led the chant. He liked to sing.”
Oh. I move closer until our shoulders brush. “I hope he had a nicer voice than I do.”
Rowan laughs softly. Moonlight filters between the trees and catches the lines of his face. Absently, he touches the scars that cross his jaw. “Sometimes I feel like he hasn’t truly gone. I keep expecting to turn around and see him there.”
“Or you hear a sound. And it’s not a voice, but it almost could be.” Memories of my family dance under my skin. They have their own kind of magic. I think of a garden, a cottage, stories told in the firelight. “I guess they’re always with us, somehow. But it’s not the same, is it?”
“Not the same, no. When I see you and Arien together—the way you play and tease and annoy each other—it makes me miss Elan even more.”
“Hm.” I squint at the branches above, then smile at him. “If you like, I could climb into one of these trees and throw apples at you. Would that help?”
“I’m not sure how I feel about your ideas of help.” He says it lightly, but his eyes are sad, and soon the laughter is gone from his voice. “Everyone I care about has been hurt because of me. I don’t want you to risk yourself because of my selfish mistakes.”
“No one else will be hurt,” I tell him. “I promise.”
I step toward him, struck by how alone we are with the village far behind us. There’s only the night sky and the quiet orchard and the scent of woodsmoke. When Rowan strokes his hand gently over my flower-threaded curls, the distance between us feels all at once too much and not enough.
His fingers trail over my cheek, down the line of my jaw. He’s still wearing his gloves. He pauses, takes them off, then touches beneath my chin, tilting my face upward.
He kisses me, softly at first, then his hands find the curve of my waist, and he pulls me closer. A scatter of flowers spills down around us from my hair. “Rowan,” I breathe, and he kisses his name from my mouth.
There’s a wistfulness in his touch, as though he’s trying to memorize each piece of this moment. Everything turns melted, slow, as his hands trace over me. Even the magic that lights my palms glimmers with an indolent warmth. I’m filled with an ache that is both painful and wonderful. It feels so good to be close to him like this. I wish we could stay here in the moonlight, among the trees, forever.
He cradles my face between his hands and presses his lips against my temple; a soft, tender motion that makes tears prickle at the corners of my eyes.
“Leta.” His voice is a drift of sparks that rise into the moonlit air. “Leta, I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t.”
I lean my head against his chest. I can feel his heart, beating fast.
Once again I weigh and measure, wonder what I might give up to the Lord Under in exchange for one single night of power. I think of strength and magic and protection, of everything that I’d have if I made a bargain with him.
I can’t do it. I know I can’t accept his help. But oh, I wish I could.