The moon grows through the week until, on the night of the ritual, it’s round and brilliant, crimson as a pomegranate.
As I walk down to the lake, the wind catches my skirts, and they drift out behind me. I’m all in black, a dress I found folded at the very depths of my trunk. It’s dark and severe, cut low at the neck and high at the waist, unadorned except for a wide ribboned sash, embroidered all over in a pattern of thorn-sharp vines. The sleeves are sheer, folded back to bare my sigil-marked forearms.
Rowan and Florence are ahead on the path. Arien and Clover are by my side. We move in silence through the ruined grounds, past my locked-up garden. We pass beneath the arched gateway that opens to the shore, and pause at the fringes of the pale-trunked trees. The Corruption hasn’t reached here—the grass still grows, and the branches still have leaves.
This is the last untouched place on the estate.
Beyond the blackened shore, the lake is eerily beautiful. There’s a trace of haze in the air, the last heat of the day gathered above the water. A twinned moon is reflected, blurred by faint ripples. When I look out over the Corruption, something inside me gives a soft stir. I put my hand to my chest and swallow down the taste of blood that clings to the back of my throat. Soon all of this will be mended.
Arien and Clover pace back and forth with their eyes on the ground as they measure out the space for the sigil. We’ve agreed to perform the ritual as we did before, the same sigil on the ground, the same sigils on our wrists. But it will be me, alone, who touches the earth and casts magic. I curl my hands closed and run my fingers against the marks on my palms. Already I can feel the power awakening beneath my skin, like banked embers ready to flare alight.
“Here we are.” I steady my voice. “I guess it’s time.”
Florence squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “Good luck. Try not to do anything completely reckless.”
I laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
She sits beneath the trees with her basket filled with blankets and bandages and a jar of Clover’s bitter tea, waiting. I look at Rowan, who stands beside me. I want to say something to him before I go, but nothing fits. I take his hand, lean my head on his shoulder.
He twists his fingers against mine restlessly. “This is a terrible idea, you know. Of all the dangers you’ve gotten yourself into, this is by far the worst.”
I cup my hands around his face and draw him down to me. I kiss him; his protests murmur to silence against my mouth.
“I can do this,” I tell him. I try to smile, but I can’t quite manage. “I will do this.”
“What if your magic hurts you the way it did last time?” He rakes a hand through his hair. “What if it hurts you worse?”
I want to reassure him that all will be well, but I can’t. My being hurt is the least of my fears. I’ll only have this power for tonight; there won’t be another chance to attempt this again. And if I fail, then Rowan will have to quiet it.
Even now, he’s still pale and worn, his eyes bruised beneath with tiredness. Poison has clotted in dark stains under the skin of his throat and wrists. There’s a halting unsteadiness to the way he moves, as though he’s being very careful to keep himself here, held back and in control.
Though neither of us has said it aloud, we both know how much is at stake. Tonight will be the last time he can let the Corruption devour him. If he lets the darkness in, he will be lost. He will become that creature I fought in the garden. And if that happens, the only way to stop him will be with death.
I pull him closer and kiss him again. I don’t want to think anymore, just be. I close my eyes and push away thoughts of him changed, or ruined, or gone. I think of how he ran his fingers over my bare skin. How my breath came out in gasps. How the tether between us hummed and burned when we were together in his bed.
“You’ll be with me.” I touch my fingers to my wrist. The sigil throbs. He makes a soft noise, half sigh.
I slide my fingers beneath the loose edge of his sleeve and up along his arm, until the sigil is underneath my hand. It beats gently against my palm like a pulse. “You can feel it, can’t you?”
Rowan wraps his hand over mine, against the spell. “Yes. I feel it.”
I feel the magic shimmer through me. I can taste it: sweet and spiced, like almas cake and honey tea. I can feel him, the contradictions of his emotions. He’s angry and frightened, angry because he’s frightened. I know he wants the Corruption mended and he wants to keep me close, but he’s afraid he can’t have both.
It’s strange, to feel his moods this way, like reading a page over his shoulder. Colors shift behind my closed lids, all laid one over another. First they’re gray and grim and dark. Then I open my eyes and look at him, and everything softens to shades of peach and gold.
“We’re bound together.” I brush my fingers over the inked lines. “You’ll be with me, no matter what.”
“I’ll be with you.” Rowan kisses the corner of my mouth, the curve of my cheek. “Be safe, my love.”
I push his hair back from his face and trace my fingertips around the delicate outsides of his ears. The silver rings pierced through his earlobes are warm under my touch. “You be safe, too.”
We step apart slowly; I don’t want to let him go. He sits down beneath the trees beside Florence, and when she puts her arm around his shoulders, he doesn’t push her away. I give them one last look, then turn and walk down across the shore, my boots sinking into the mud.
When I reach the water, a cold wind blows across the surface. It’s like frost against my skin. Icy sweat beads at my temples and drips down my neck.
I step over the outer lines of the sigil and stand very still as Arien and Clover circle around me. They mark shape after shape, until I am at the heart of the inscription they’ve drawn on the earth. Once they are finished, Arien smiles at me, uncertain and afraid. “Are you ready?”
I look out over the water. The lake ripples gently, and a wave breaks against the shore with a sound like a sigh. “I’m ready.”
Arien grabs me swiftly, pulls me into a tight hug. I press my face against his shoulder, breathe in the paper-and-ink scent of him. He takes a deep breath, then bends down and cuts a line in the wet ground with his fingers. He draws his mud-caked hand across his chest, making the sign of the Lady.
Clover repeats the gesture. She wipes her muddied hand against her skirts and smiles at me. “Good luck, Violeta.” She arches a brow and leans close to whisper. “By the way, you have an enormous kiss mark on your throat, did you know?”
I put my hand to my neck, my face full of heat, as she snorts back a laugh. I grin and shove her away, shaking my head. I inhale, then reach down to press my fingers into the earth. Slowly, I draw my hand across my chest, leaving behind a streak of black over my heart.
Arien and Clover step back, careful not to blur the sigil with their feet. I kneel down slowly and put my hands flat against the ground.
The Corruption wakes up. A tendril of darkness uncoils and slithers across my fingertips. I stare at the lake, thinking of Rowan’s family, all lost beneath that ink-dark water. Of Arien, caught by so many sharp-clawed hands. I let out a shuddering breath. I’m so afraid.
I look back over my shoulder. Arien and Clover stand together, just outside the sigil. Rowan and Florence wait beneath the trees.
I’m afraid. But I’m not alone.
Magic hums beneath my skin, and the sigil on my wrist begins to glow. As my power awakens, I’m filled again by an intense loneliness, a keen feeling of absence. The reminder that a part of me that was once here, burning bright alongside my magic, has been lost forever. When I close my eyes, I’m back on the ashen field where nothing grows, the thread of my power strung loosely around me.
I picture the thread knotted tighter and tighter. The new strength builds, and I feel it, hot and brutal, as it gathers in my hands.
I let it go.
Heat flares in my chest then spreads through my body in a feverish rush. I open my eyes and press my hands deep into the mud. Light blooms at my palms. I am the sun. I am a wildfire. Around me, the lines of the sigil ignite into golden brilliance. It spreads along the shore until all the earth glows.
I can do this. I will do this. I’ll send my magic into the darkness and mend it all.
The Corruption starts to writhe. I feel its fury, its hunger. It tries to fight me. I push; it pushes back. I dig my hands deeper into the ground. The power burns and burns and burns. The hollow, bereft feeling grows steadily, too, and the carved-out place within me fills with an unbearable ache. It hurts. I bite my lip, hard. My nose starts to bleed.
I can do this. I can do this.
The ground gives a hideous, endless shudder. Then all goes still. I turn around, a disbelieving laugh caught in my throat. Clover and Arien lift their hands from the sigil, smiling with hesitant relief. Beyond them, under the trees, Rowan and Florence have gotten to their feet. Hope fills me as I look back out across the shore.
It’s mended.
The ground is smooth earth and scattered pebbles; the forest is pale, silken bark and new leaves fluttering against the star-specked sky. The water, rippling in the moonlight, is clear. I put a tentative hand back against the mended earth. It’s done.
I want to sink to the ground and curl up and never move.
But then a strange, sharp pull jolts against my ribs. I stagger, nearly falling, as the earth turns darker and darker beneath my hand. Thin rivulets of shadow spread out around me, up toward the forest, and back down into the lake. There’s a tremor, and then—a wound opens, tearing through the ground from my hands all the way to the edge of the water.
I hear Clover cry out, and Arien takes a step across the sigil. I throw out my hand to stop him. “No! Don’t come close. It might—”
He stumbles back. I bend down and shove my hands into the ground. The Corruption rises quickly, wrapping around me until my wrists are snared. It tightens and tightens, a painful, crushing grip. The light of my magic flares up from beneath the mud. The sigil burns brightly, the intricate lines brilliant gold against the blackened earth.
I close my eyes and force all my weight against the ground. My heart beats desperately against my ribs. The world is too bright, too hot.
From far off comes the heavy sound of footsteps. Rowan runs to me, his boots smearing the sigil, fracturing the spell. Light scatters as the lines break apart. He grabs my shoulder. “Leta, you can’t do this. You can’t—”
He cuts off to a sudden, choked silence.
The ground shudders and he shudders. Blood stains the corners of his eyes. He blinks, and it spreads across his irises until they’re crimson. At his throat the darkness writhes, the shadows unfold. I see him try to fight it: his teeth clenched, his breath fast. His scars tear open, and blackened water streams out from the wounds.
And then, just like in the garden, he’s gone.
My hands are trapped by the earth, and I can’t get free. I hiss out a sharp, pained cry as he grabs my wrist. I try to pull loose, but he tightens his hold on me. “Rowan, fight it—”
But he can’t; he’s caught; he’s lost. I close my eyes and try to feel the magic strung between us. I picture the thread of power held tight in my hands. I pull on the lingering magic and try to subdue him, just like I did before.
“Lie still, lie still.” The words come out like a chant. “Quiet, stay quiet.”
Blood runs from my nose as the crescent mark on my palm beats and beats. The whole world is heat and hurt and power. My power. The thread of magic wants to slip from my grasp. But I hold it tight.
I pull and pull and pull.
Rowan lets go of me and falls to his knees with a gasp. He has a hand at his throat. He takes another ragged breath. Then his eyes blink clear. “Leta, you have to stop the ritual.”
“I can’t.” My voice sticks on the edge of a sob. “If I stop, it will only get worse.”
He spits out a mouthful of ink-dark water. “Let it claim me—I don’t care. I won’t let you be hurt.”
I shake my head, tears spilling from my eyes. I can’t let go. The Corruption is quiet; I have it held, have Rowan held. But the poison isn’t gone. I look down into the open ground, that endless, depthless dark. I was supposed to be able to mend it.
Then I understand.
This darkness before me isn’t a wound. It’s a path.
And I have to follow.
I’m so afraid. I’m so afraid. I don’t want to do this. But I have to.
“Rowan.” All I can see is that path, waiting to lead me into the lake. “I can’t mend the Corruption here. I have to mend it in the world Below.”
As soon as I’ve spoken, the earth that’s trapped my wrists uncoils.
Rowan looks at me, his expression raw and wounded. “Leta, no.”
“I have to,” I tell him. “I have to do this, or it will never stop. It will spread; it will claim you; it will claim everything.”
Arien comes over and puts his hands on my shoulders. Although his cheeks are tear stained, he looks at me evenly. “I’ll hold it back for you while you’re gone. Clover and I both will, just like in the garden.”
His jaw is set, and his shoulders are squared. He has the same expression he wore the night after the first ritual, when he wasn’t afraid of his power anymore. “I can do this, Leta. We can do this.”
I pull him close and hold him tightly. I can feel the frightened beat of his heart against my chest. He grasps me back, just as tight, then lets me go.
I turn to Rowan and catch his face in my mud-streaked hands. “I’ll come back.” I kiss him, hard. “I promise I’ll come back to you.”
Silence closes out the world until there’s only me and the mud and the opened path. Then I see him, way out beyond the shore, a sliver of pale mist against the dark.
The Lord Under. He stretches out a hand as he waits for me. He knew—he knew all along that I’d have to do this.
I wish I could refuse him. Forfeit our bargain and tell him that I’ll never, ever help. But there’s no other choice. The Corruption is laced through the whole world—earth, blood, heart, skin. It’s everywhere. And we will never be free—or safe—unless I mend it.
I get to my feet.
I go toward the lake.
I walk into the darkness.