Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(22)

“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.