A Ruin of Roses (Deliciously Dark Fairytales #1)(49)

“I’m hardly a master. Still, you’ll learn that I don’t make unfounded claims. Come on, let’s get cracking.”

“I can’t wait.”

It sounded like he actually meant it.

Sawhorses holding large wooden trays with lips about the length of my pinky had been spread out along the edge of the field. The moon shone down, at its full strength and providing plenty of light. The night breeze ruffled the leaves, and a night bird screeched in the distance.

I smiled and closed my eyes for a moment, taking it all in.

“A copper for your thoughts?” Nyfain said quietly.

I spread my hands and took a deep breath. “I have all this everlass to work with, at the right time of night, and I don’t have to worry about a great beast or some other creature killing me. I don’t have to be jumpy or always looking over my shoulder. It’s like a dream come true.”

“Or would be if you weren’t doing this to negate the nightmare in which you live.”

“Way to steal the moment.” I ran my fingers along the inside of one of the trays and then felt the lip. “Cedar works better for trays. This tray is pine, if I’m not mistaken. That’s second best.”

“I’ve heard the opposite.”

“The book said the opposite, as well. There are limits to secondhand information. Your mother said pine was king, and so you went with that. Your mother’s mother probably said the same thing. The guy who penned that book clearly heard it too. They had no reason to question it. Had I not been using oak before I read that, which was worse, I wouldn’t have thought to experiment either, but the differences were stark enough to make me wonder about the impact of other types of wood. Through trial and error, I discovered cedar worked the best, hands down. It’s the most forgiving, and it produces the most potent leaf.”

He didn’t comment, as I’d thought he might. I’d probably want to argue if someone told me that my mother’s knowledge was mistaken. Then again, it wasn’t like I was telling him to change out the trays. He had clearly grown accustomed to letting the demons rattle on. That was probably what he was doing with me, too.

I paused when I ran my fingers along the top of the last tray.

I lifted it and tossed it to the ground. “Someone polished that one. That’ll wilt the leaves at twice the speed.”

He crossed his arms, still watching me.

I paused. “That was a test, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Was that in your book?”

“No. I learned that one the hard way. I tried to increase production once because a neighbor was on her deathbed and her husband, who usually made the elixir, was injured hunting. My mother was gravely ill then, too. I tried to double the batch. I used the neighbor’s tray and damn near lost all the leaves.”

“Did you save the neighbor?”

“I didn’t save either of them. I haven’t saved anyone. Just given them more time.”

“And yet you still think you’ll be able to save them all.”

His tone had turned rough. Mr. Broody Fucker was never far away.

“I’m at least trying. Are you going to help me or not?”

“What’s your process?”

“Given the size of those trays, you’re going to have to follow along behind me, holding one until it’s full.”

He picked the first one up without another word, and I started harvesting leaves—one per plant, the biggest and healthiest ones I saw. As I went, I took care of any pruning he’d missed, adding the plant fluffing into the routine. Taking care of these plants was relaxing in a way. Meditative. Probably because giving them love and care meant I’d be able to give family and friends love and care.

Halfway down the row, I heard a soft tune in a deep, rumbling voice. The notes rose and fell delicately, beautiful and intoxicating. A glance back said he was in the same headspace, peaceful and meditative. It was like he’d started singing without realizing he was doing it.

“Louder, please,” I said as I deposited three leaves on his tray. I met his deep, soulful eyes.

“My mother used to sing that song when she worked the everlass. I didn’t mean to sing it out loud.”

“It’s beautiful. Did your mother die before the curse?”

“Yes.”

“Then she was spared the nightmare.”

“This is the only nightmare she was spared.”

I layered my hand over his on the tray, running my thumb across his knuckles. I didn’t really know what to say, so I repeated, “Sing louder, please.”

He sang with words this time, in a language I didn’t know. An ancient language, it sounded like, with rolled vowels and soft consonants. His pitch-perfect voice was still deep and scratchy but pleasing in an unexpected way. It lifted my spirits and soothed my anxiety. His tone was full of sweet sorrow and soft lament, his voice now billowing larger, lazily sifting through the air.

Before I knew it, all three trays were as filled as they safely could be. He pulled over two carts with space for two trays each, and we loaded the trays up, each of us wielding a cart. Only when we reached a large shed with two tables spanning the length with various stations for working with plants and herbs did he finally let the song die on his lips. The absence left a pang in my heart.

“Was her version sad, as well?” I asked as he helped me deposit the trays near the end of the nearest table.