Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(11)

He takes a fistful of twigs from the wood box and throws them into the reluctant flames. I look at his hands and picture his fingers wrapped around a throat. When I close my eyes, the image stays. A white face, blurred beneath water, a rush of bubbles that spills out in a terrible, silent cry.

He gets to his feet when he hears us come in. He sweeps the hood of his cloak back over his hair and tilts his head toward the door. “Arien. A word.”

He puts his hand on Arien’s shoulder and guides him outside. Florence catches my arm when I move to follow them. “No. That isn’t your concern.”

“He’s my brother.”

“Yes, he is.” She’s nearly as tall as the monster, and the way she looks at me is almost as frightening. “And he’s right outside. He’ll be perfectly safe.”

Outside the open door, Arien and the monster stand in a circle of lamplight. The monster is speaking rapidly, his voice low and indistinct. I strain to listen, but I can only catch scraps of his words.

“Two days … the full moon…”

“Here.” Florence pushes a tin kettle into my hands and nods to the corner, where there’s a sink. “Go and fill this for me.”

I clutch the kettle against my chest and go over to the sink. I shove the kettle under the spout, hard. The edge catches with a loud clang. The bowl of the sink is filled with dried leaves and the crumbled bodies of dead moths. The pump handle is stiff. I grip it tightly and lean all of my strength into it. The water spills loose, rust tinged, splashing the front of my dress and washing the dust of wings and leaves into the drain.

I fill the kettle, my eyes fixed on the door. The monster leans closer to Arien. His mouth shapes the same word over and over. Arien shakes his head and tries to back away. He darts a nervous glance toward me, his teeth dug into his lip.

I hand the kettle to Florence, who has started to unpack a makeshift dinner from one of the bags she brought with her. I cross the room quickly, and the monster cuts to a sudden silence when he sees me approach. He turns and walks away, farther outside, until he’s almost completely swallowed up by the night.

I put my hand on Arien’s cheek. “What was he asking you?”

He closes his eyes and leans his face against my palm. “Nothing.”

“Arien. Tell me.”

He looks warily to where the monster has gone, far off in the dark. “He said—”

“Nothing,” the monster calls. His boots crunch against the ground as he comes back into the room. He folds his arms, leans his shoulder against the doorframe. His eyes narrow at me coldly. “It was nothing.”

The darkness behind him is like the depths of a well, but his face is lit by the lamp. He has more scars around his throat. Sharp, blackened marks that wreathe his skin like a necklace of thorns. My fingers rise, unbidden, to trace across my own throat.

What hurt him? What made those terrible marks?

And then, for just a moment, the veins in his throat turn … dark. Just like they did in the village. The light reflected in his eyes turns crimson.

Anxiously, I look around the room, from the shuttered windows to the opened door. The olive grove is a wall of shadows beneath the moonlit sky. How many steps would it take us to run from the wayside to the trees? My mind races as I try to calculate if we could get there fast enough. If we could reach the forest before the monster caught us.

The kettle begins to steam with a piercing whistle. I jolt, my breath stuck, as blotches of white close across my vision. I fight to drag air through my tightened lungs as Florence moves the kettle from the heat. She puts it heavily onto the iron stand, then takes down a stack of enamelware cups from the shelf above the benchtop.

She fills a pot and starts to spoon in leaves from a small hand-labeled jar, making tea. The monster watches her from the doorway as she finishes, then comes forward to take a cup when she holds it out to him.

There’s no table, nowhere to sit except for the folded blankets that have been laid out into four makeshift beds. They’re all together in a neat row. I take the endmost two and drag them away to the opposite side of the room. Arien and I huddle together, so close that our shoulders touch.

Florence passes us each a cup of tea and a plate with a square of almas cake, spiced and sweet, made of dried apples and brown sugar.

“We’ll have a long ride tomorrow.” She takes a sip from her own cup. “Finish that, then try and get some sleep.”

I can’t remember the last time I ate, but there’s only a numb hollowness in my stomach. I pick at the cake until it crumbles apart under my fingers, then drink a wary mouthful of the tea. It’s bitter, with a faint sweetness that stays on my tongue. I put the cup aside and lie down on top of the blankets as Arien stretches out beside me.

There’s a scrape from the stove drafts as Florence banks the fire, then the rustle of blankets. The room lulls into a tense silence.

Arien lies on his back and stares up at the thatched ceiling. His face is creased with worry, and there are tired, leaden shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m sorry, Leta. I’ve really messed everything up.”

“Arien. This isn’t your fault, not at all.”

He sighs. I reach across and touch his hand, trying to think of a way to comfort him. “Do you want me to tell you a story?”

The stories are my clearest memory of our life before. And now, whenever I tell them to Arien, I hear the low rumble of my father’s voice as he read aloud to me. I feel my mother’s hand as we went to the village, how she promised another tale if I’d walk just a little farther.