Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(15)

I step closer to him, clutching my satchel against my chest. Almost my entire life is folded up inside: the itchy sweater I wear in the winter, a nightdress that’s gotten thin at the elbows, a pair of stockings with mends across the toes. And a handful of stones, my treasures from the windowsill in our cottage bedroom.

“It’s so big,” Arien says as we stare up at the house. “It looks like something from one of your stories, Leta.”

“It’s…” I reach for the word, unsure. “It’s beautiful.”

All the rumors say Lakesedge is cursed. But none of them mention the faded, neglected beauty of it all. I thought it would be a place of spikes and shadows. But Arien is right—it’s like a story.

Most of the windows are closed, and a thick tangle of ivy winds between the wooden shutters. The front door is carved with a raised pattern. I trace my fingers across it, over vines and leaves so delicate they could have been embroidered against the wood. The iron handle is carved, too. An enormous ring shaped like a wreath, furled with leaves and bellflowers. When I put my hand against it, the cold press of iron makes me shiver. But slowly, it begins to warm beneath my palm.

A strange emotion threads around me like the vines woven across the shutters. There’s something so sad about this poor, solemn house, with its windows like closed-over eyes and a ring of cold iron at the door. It’s like something kept under a spell, too long asleep. I put my hand against the stone wall. Close my eyes. There’s a stirring beneath my fingertips. Like the house is breathing, deep and slow.

Then a sharp cry echoes from the slope above the house. I snatch back my hand. A feathered shape swoops away into the night. Arien and I grab for each other. My heart begins to pound urgently, flurried as whatever bird was just disturbed.

The door opens, and a girl stands there. Small and plump, she’s my age or younger. Her white skin is sprinkled with coppery freckles, and her chestnut hair is pulled into a five-strand braid that almost reaches her waist.

“Hello.” She blinks at us from behind her large, round-framed glasses and smiles hesitantly. “I’m Clover Aensland.”

She steps back to let us pass through the door. The entrance hall is easily the biggest space I’ve ever been in. It’s overlooked by an arched window set high in the wall above the upstairs landing. Through the glass I can see handfuls of stars. It’s late, the dim space before new morning.

Clover laughs good-naturedly as I stare at the room. “I know. My mother’s whole cottage would fit in this hall.”

Arien looks around, wide eyed. “It’s all so empty.”

It is empty. I can hear voices from the depths of the house—the measured notes of Florence, the deeper tones of the monster, but the entrance hall is quiet and still. There’s hardly any furniture, and the walls are bare. There’s no light except for a single candle. A lamp hangs in the gloom above, but it’s unlit, threaded all over with cobwebs. Beneath the dust, the glass shades gleam like gemstones.

We follow Clover across the hall and down a long corridor.

“Have you been here very long?” I ask her.

“About a year. It’s my first job, my first time away from home.” She tugs at the end of her braid and smiles, shyly proud. “I’m the alchemist for Lakesedge Estate.”

I look at her with surprise. I’ve heard of how alchemists sometimes leave the Maylands—their commune near the far-off capital—to live at an estate and help the lord. It’s said they can do wondrous things. Heal beyond the power of village herbalists. Make crops grow from drought-ruined fields. But the materials used in their magic are rare and expensive, so most places like Greymere only have a healer.

“Oh,” Arien says, his face alight with a peculiar longing. “Can I see your spells?”

Clover laughs and rolls back her sleeve to show us her arm. Her skin is inked all over with tiny, detailed marks. Circles and sharp-cornered lines all connected together. Arien leans in to take a closer look. “They’re beautiful, Clover.”

I wish I could share his awe. The symbols are beautiful, but the thought of having spells woven into me, marked forever on my body, is unsettling.

Clover leads us into a large kitchen. There’s a table at the center and the cast-iron stove has just been lit. The new fire sends a flickering, orange glow into the room. Clover moves around busily, setting the table for tea. While Arien helps her, I go over to look out the window. Behind the house is an overgrown garden, silent in the moonlight.

The monster comes into the room. He ignores us, pausing by the altar on the opposite wall to light the candles. He takes one from the shelf and sets it into a jar, which he puts down carefully on the table beside the teacups that Clover laid out.

He’s no longer wearing his cloak, and he looks younger without the weight of it around his shoulders. If I didn’t know any better, he might just be a boy, with his hair knotted from the wind and tired lines beneath his dark eyes.

I start to walk toward him. I don’t know what spurs me forward. Some reckless impulse. Like throwing a stone into the well just to hear it splash. Or maybe I want to prove to myself that I don’t have to be afraid.

I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Lord Sylvanan?”

His head snaps up. “Don’t call me that. I don’t use my title.”

“Well then … do you have a name?”