Hand in hand, with the silent trees around us, it’s like we’re in the woods near the wayside again. Now that I know the truth, I wish I’d never turned back that night. When the wolf wounded Rowan, I should have left him there on his knees, taken Arien, and run far, far away.
I drag Arien into the overgrown, weed-tangled garden at the front of the house. I slump back against the wall, trying to catch my breath, as a plan takes shape in my mind. We’ll run along the drive to where the arched iron gateway opens onto a road. If we follow it for long enough, we’ll find the village we passed on the way here.
“We have to leave,” I tell Arien.
“We can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks at me sadly, then rolls back his sleeve. On his wrist is a fresh, raised mark, made of delicate lines, just like the sigils I saw on Clover’s arms. He closes his fingers around it. “We can’t. I can’t. There’s nowhere else for me to go.”
“Arien.” My voice wavers. “Arien, no.”
“You saw it, Leta. You saw me.” He gives me a desperate look. The black in his eyes has faded to silver, but his fingers are still dark. “All those nights, all those times that Mother said she needed to fix me. She hurt me. She hurt you. And I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t do anything. But now I can. I want to stay. I want to learn how to use my magic. Clover’s going to teach me.”
“So this is the help Rowan promised.” Anger laces my mouth with a taste more bitter than the virulent tea. “Clover will teach you alchemy, and in return all you have to do is risk your life. You saw what the Corruption did to Rowan.” A fresh horror fills me when I picture his bloodied eyes, the way he sat so still and unresisting as the earth crept over him. “What if that had been you?”
“I don’t care if it’s dangerous. At least here no one is afraid of me.” Arien looks away quickly, his cheeks flushed. It hangs between us, unspoken. No one is afraid of me here—except for you.
I didn’t want him to know how I truly felt, but he did. Of course he did. And now he’s come to a monster who will give him what I couldn’t. Who looked on his shadows—his magic—and was never afraid.
The tears I held back before spill loose. “All I wanted was to keep you safe.”
Arien puts his hand on my arm. He’s about to speak when a sound cuts through the dark from behind the house. I tiptoe closer, staying near the wall, and watch Rowan make his way back inside. Florence is helping him, her arm around his waist. His head is down, his face hidden by his hair.
After they pass, there’s a dark trail of blood left behind, dripped across the stones.
Clover follows them wearily, carrying the lantern. She’s covered with mud. It’s in the end of her braid, on her glasses, on her face. She looks up and notices me; I hear her murmur to the others, urging them ahead.
She skirts around the side of the house and comes toward us. She touches Arien’s cheek, giving him a worried look. “Please, don’t run away.”
He smiles at her weakly. “We’re not running.”
I step between them. “Ash damn it, Arien. How can you act like Rowan gave you a choice in this, when he hunted you down—when he threatened you?”
“Violeta, it’s not how it looks.” Clover tugs at her braid, tangling it around her muddy fingers. “The ritual wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”
“Which part, exactly, wasn’t supposed to happen? When the ground tore open, or when the Monster of Lakesedge cut himself to feed that thing?” I hiss out a sigh between my teeth. “I want to know what’s going on. I want to know the truth.”
“It’s not so easy to explain.”
“You’re complicit in helping someone who murdered his family. You forced my brother to work dark magic. Is that a good start?”
Arien glares at me. “Leta. It’s not her fault.”
I kick at the ground, annoyed, knowing I should apologize. But even though Arien is right, and what just happened wasn’t truly Clover’s fault, I’m still angry. With her, with everyone. “Can you at least try to tell me what you’re doing here?”
“You’re right, Violeta. You deserve to know. You’ve seen a blighted tree, haven’t you?” Clover asks. “Rowan told me about what happened in the woods on your way here.”
“Yes. And the almond grove near our village was blighted one Harvestfall. But the Corruption—you can’t tell me that’s the same as a poisoned tree.”
“It is, and it isn’t.” She holds out both her hands and motions like she’s weighing something in her cupped palms. “There’s light, there’s dark, and usually they balance. And when they fall out of balance, it’s like a wound. The magic in this part of the world—in the ground near the lake—is poisoned. Rowan told me he sent Florence to burn the trees at the wayside. What did they do with the orchard near your village? The same?”
“Yes. The keeper ordered it burned.”
“The Corruption isn’t like that. There’s no one piece to cut or raze. But in the Maylands, I studied blight and I made a spell that can mend it, so it doesn’t need to be burned.”
Thoughts close in—distant things that I have tried to forget. Midwinter. My parents laid out on the ground beside our cottage. A torch set to the walls. Firelight streaked in orange sparks against the cold night sky.
I shake my head, push the memory away.
“So you plan to get the Corruption out of Lakesedge with this spell of yours? And what about the blood?” I rub my wrist, thinking of how Rowan took out the knife. The hideous, resolute way he cut himself, like it didn’t even hurt. “Is that part of your spell, too?”
“Yes. It responds to his blood, and I use his blood in my spell.” Clover meets my gaze evenly as I swallow, feeling sick. His blood. “Every full moon, Rowan and I have tried to mend the Corruption. But so far it’s never worked.”
Arien steps forward and spreads out his hands. “Because there was something missing. Clover’s magic is light, and mine is … dark. We balance each other.”
Clover gives him a faint smile. “No other alchemist can work the kind of magic you have. This really is our only chance to mend it.” She tilts her head back until it rests against the wall, and sighs a hot, tired breath into the hot, tired night. “I’m certain we can do this if we work together.”
I remember how she looked during the ritual: teeth set, fingers tight around Arien’s wrist. Then I’d thought her ruthless—but now she just looks worn out and small.
I think again of the blighted orchard in Greymere, how after the trees were burned and the ashes cooled, everyone gathered around the field. We lit candles. We put our hands into the charred ground and mixed the ashes into the earth as we chanted the autumn litany. Then, the next year, we planted more trees. They grew, and soon it was like there had never been any difference.
Could Arien do the same? Use his shadows to mend the Corruption, to turn the blackened shore and the ink-dark lake back to sand and clear water?
I turn to him and put my hand on his arm. “Arien. Please.”
“I want to do this, Leta. I want to help.” He softens his voice and looks at me solemnly. “Rowan saved you in the woods. He didn’t have to go back for you, but he did.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “He only saved me because he wanted you to help him.”
“Is that really what you think?”
I close my eyes against the thought of Rowan, how he spoke to me at the edge of the trees. The way his thumb brushed over the bruises on my wrist. “He wanted us to feel indebted.”
Arien sighs. “Or maybe he was worried about you.”
“If we stay…” I pause, let the feel of the words settle in my mouth. “It will be for you, Arien. Because you want to be here, not because we owe him anything.”
Arien lifts his chin. “I want to be here, Leta.”
Clover’s eyes are all hope. “Then you will come back into the house?”
I can’t trust my voice. I swallow, hard. Taste salt and ash. “Yes.”
We go toward the front door. Before we step inside, I look up at the house. It’s all dark, except for one of the topmost windows, which is filled with diffuse light. The type of light that would come from an altar candle, almost burned down. I picture Rowan hidden away in his room. His arm torn open. Streaks of darkness fading from his skin.
The entrance hall is still and silent. It feels wrong that we’re back here instead of on the road, going far away from the Monster of Lakesedge and his horrible, cursed estate.
Clover leads us past rows of closed doors. I fix my eyes on the vines carved into the wooden panels of the wall, the patterned paper. This is your home now.
I grit my teeth and try to reach for some of the awe and wonder I had last night when we arrived—before my dreams of ink-dark water and whispering voices. When I saw the faded loveliness of the house and felt like it might be a friend.
After the darkness of the hall, the lamplit kitchen is bright. I stand in the doorway and rest my shoulder against the wooden frame. Let my eyes adjust until everything turns to a muted orange glow.
The kitchen is filled with steam from the pots that simmered on the stove earlier. The table is covered with skeins of bandages. Beside them is an enamelware bowl. The bottom is splattered with inky, dark liquid. A bloodstained cloth is crumpled up in the shallow water. My stomach twists. I look away from it quickly.
Florence sweeps into the room. She’s smeared with mud from where Rowan leaned against her, and there’s a streak of blood across one shoulder of her dress. She looks us over, rakes a hand through the ends of her hair and sighs.
“Well.” She sighs again. “You all need a bath, and dinner, and about ten years of sleep. Sit down.”
She starts to clear off the table, going in and out of the room with a brush of skirts. She shoves the bandages back into a basket, then takes the bowl with its revolting contents and puts it outside. Arien sways beside me for a moment then staggers forward and slumps into a chair.
I sit down beside him. “This is a terrible idea.”
“I don’t know,” Clover puts in. “I liked the part about dinner.”
I close my eyes and circle my fingers against my temples. My head aches. My dress is stuck against my knees in two dark patches where the cuts have bled through.
All my fright and panic from before has faded into cold shock, and I’ve started to shiver. Everything I’ve seen tonight has the feel of a terrible dream. My rush to the lake, the blackened ground, the way it tore open to that horrible, depthless wound. It doesn’t seem real.
It doesn’t seem real that we’re going to stay here, either. That we’re going to help the monster as he fights the darkness.
The kettle begins to hum. Florence sets out a new bowl and gives us each a clean, folded cloth. She fills the bowl with hot water and tips in dried herbs, followed by a handful of salt. The water steams. Bitterness fills the air as the herbs steep and the salt dissolves.
Clover unbuttons the sleeves of her embroidered dress and rolls them back. Once the water has cooled enough, she takes a cloth, soaks it in the bowl, and starts to scrub away the mud. Then Arien folds back his sleeves and cleans his hands with a fresh cloth.
When he’s finished, I soak my cloth in the water. I’m filthy, but I do my best to wash the mud from my hands and arms. Beneath, my skin is tender. Like a blister, a burn. I look at Arien. His hands are the same. Reddened and sore where the mud touched him.
I think of Rowan, bent low over the ground. The way the strands of darkness hungrily covered his arms, his face. If just these small traces of Corruption hurt us like this, then how did he feel? I grip the smooth edge of the kitchen table and try to hold back a shudder.
“How many more times will you have to do this?” I ask Arien. “Is all of this really worth it?”
Florence sets a plate in front of me. “Rowan isn’t doing this for fun, Violeta. He isn’t asking anyone to risk more than what he faces himself.”
I sigh and pick up my fork. My stomach unknots long enough to grumble hungrily when I see the meal. Nettle greens and sugar peas, wild strawberries, tomatoes cut into crescents and sprinkled with salt. Summer food. We’d eat this in the cottage when it was too hot for a stove fire.
Then tea. Clover tips more vials of the green liquid into the cups. It hisses and steams.
“You know, that tastes disgusting,” I tell her.
She looks offended. “It’s medicine!”
Arien stifles a laugh with the edge of his wrist. “Leta’s right. How can something that smells so nice taste so bad?”
“It’s not supposed to taste good. Anyway, you won’t need it for much longer. The more you use your magic, the more you learn to control it, the less you’ll dream.”
I turn the cup around in my hands. “Why did you give it to me, then? I don’t have magic.”
“It will still help you sleep. That’s why Rowan drinks it.”
“I don’t think it works. I had terrible dreams last night.” I drink the tea quickly, trying to ignore the bitter flavor. Arien swallows his with a grimace.
“The ritual will get easier,” Clover offers. “We have until the next full moon before we can try again. We have time to prepare. This attempt—”
“Was a disaster.”
“Leta, I don’t want to argue about it.” Arien picks at the edge of his shirt where his cuffs are caked with mud. “They need me.”
“You should let Rowan fight his own darkness,” I say.
Florence sits down and leans her elbows against the table. She gives me a level look. “Whatever you’ve heard about Rowan—those stories—they aren’t true.”
“You mean he didn’t murder his whole family?”
Her mouth draws tight.
“He’s not cruel, Violeta,” Clover says quietly. “He wants to help your brother, not harm him. Yes, we need Arien’s magic for my spell, but in return I’ll teach him alchemy. Don’t you want him to learn?”
A lump rises in my throat. I look down at Arien’s fingers, stained dark from the shadows. The marks remind me of when he was small and Mother gave us a scrap of dough to make into a tiny loaf of bread. I told Arien to watch the stove, then came back from the garden to find him watching it as smoke curled out from the drafts and the bread burned. We ate it anyway. Put honey over the blackened edges. It was sweet and wonderful.
That burned-black bread with drips of honey … Arien’s gentle hands casting dark magic … All this time I’ve wanted to keep him safe from the darkness. But now it seems that the only way for him to be—if not safe, then happy—is to call the shadows in rather than chase them away.
“I’m sorry.” I squeeze his hand. “I love you.”
His eyes shimmer in the firelight, filled with tears. “I love you too, Leta. And I know you’re worried about me, but I want to do this.” He draws himself up. “If I can learn how to use the shadows, how to control them, I won’t have to be afraid anymore. I want to learn how to be an alchemist.”
Tiredly, I bend down to unlace my boots. My dress is ruined, the hem torn from where I ripped it in the woods, the rest of the fabric filthy with blackened mud. I fold back my skirts and peel down my stockings. The cloths tied around my knees have dried stiff and dark. My hands shake as I unwrap them. The cuts look terrible. My skin is angry red beneath the crusted blood.
Clover draws in a sharp breath when she sees, and exchanges a horrified look with Florence.
“I could—” Clover eyes me nervously. “I could mend them for you.”
“Mend them?” I stare at her, confused. Mend. It’s the same word she used to describe what they’re trying to do with the Corruption. Strange to think that with magic, both the earth and my skin can be put back together like a torn sheet.
She goes into the stillroom beside the kitchen and comes back with a case made from pale wood. Deftly, she flips it open. There’s a proud gleam in her eyes as she shows me the contents. The case is divided into compartments, treasures nestled inside each one. Rows of tiny stoppered jars, polished stones, a bundle of slender beeswax candles. Folded papers, a pearl-handled pen, a bottle of bright blue ink.
Arien peers at the case, eager and curious. His face reminds me of the way I’d feel in Greymere when I saw jars of sweets in the store window.
“Will you let her?” He looks up at me, teeth pressed into his lip.
This moment feels like a chance. A way for me to tell Arien all the things I can’t find words for. I’m sorry. I was afraid of your shadows—your magic—but never you. I nod slowly. “You can mend me.”
Clover crouches down on the floor. “I have to touch your skin to check what I’ll need for the spell,” she says softly. “May I?”
I nod again. She puts her hands against my knees. Closes her eyes. Then she sits back and touches her fingers together as she counts under her breath, like she’s calculating a sum. “It will leave scars as payment.”
I don’t quite understand what she means. But she’s gentle as she wets a cloth and washes away the blood. It stings. She takes a small jar from her case, filled with sweet-smelling salve, and wipes it over the cuts. With her pen she sketches a quick symbol on her wrist. Then she leans closer, her eyes focused with concentration. I watch, fascinated, as they change color. Not black like Arien’s but pale gold. Her skin is hot when she puts her palms flat against my knees.
I wince at her touch, and my eyes scrunch closed.
A press, a whisper. My skin tingling warm. And then I am mended.
I open one eye slowly, then the other.
“What’s the matter?” Clover raises a brow. “Worried I’d turn you into a frog?”
“Of course not.”
She shows me her hand. On her open palm, like an offering, are tiny pieces of glass. They were still there, buried under my skin. The cuts bled as my body tried to heal around those hidden shards. I get up and take them from her. I open the stove and flick the pieces of glass into the coals.
Florence comes over to stand beside me and hesitantly puts her hand on my shoulder. I remember how Rowan turned away from her at the wayside. Maybe each time she reaches out, she expects to be refused. But I let her touch me. I let her comb her fingers gently through my hair.
“I’m glad you decided to stay, Violeta.”
Her fingers work carefully, unfurling knots into curls. Her touch, the firelight, the way the kitchen smells of stove ash and burned sugar—it pulls at me. For just a moment I could almost feel safe. But no amount of kindness will take away the reality of what lies outside, beyond the house.
Because the lake is there. Waiting and wanting.