Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(26)

“Whose are these?”

Rowan gives me the same look he did when I asked his name, as if the answer should be obvious. “Yours.”

“But I have clothes.”

He looks at the fireplace, where my stained dress is still in the hearth. “I never said you didn’t.”

I close the lid of the trunk and go over to the hearth to pick up my dress. I run my fingers over the torn hem, then trace over the embroidery I stitched around the neckline and cuffs. I was so proud when I made it. The dark green linen sash, the embroidered details. But now all I can see is the uneven hem, the snags and frays where the thread tangled.

“I don’t want anything from you. Except for you to promise that Arien will be safe, and I know you won’t do that.”

Rowan rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. “I meant what I said when I came to your cottage. I’m going to help him. He and Clover have already begun their lessons in the library.”

I think of Arien, how his face lit with longing, with hope, when Rowan made his offer. Then the fear that crowded in when he told Arien what he’d do, if he didn’t go to Lakesedge. “That was a cruel trick, you know. How you threatened him so he’d be forced to come with you.”

“I needed him here before the full moon. There wasn’t enough time to explain the truth of it.”

“And you think that excuses what you did?”

He steps closer and softens his voice. “He doesn’t have to hide who he is now.”

I press my nails so hard against my palms that they dig crescents into my skin. “Don’t act like this is some benevolent gift you’re giving him. If you truly cared about Arien, you’d fight your own Corruption.”

Slowly, Rowan reaches for his sleeve. He pushes it back until it’s past his elbow, and shows me his bared arm. The skin around the pale linen bandage is scarred, old wounds that are torn and ruined and badly healed.

“I have fought it, Violeta.” He says my name quietly, like a word from a spell. “I am still fighting it. And if I had any other choice, a way to do this without your brother, I would take it.”

I can’t look away from his outstretched arm. The scars, the cuts. Before I can stop myself, I reach toward him, the movement almost unconscious. My hand brushes over his skin. He flinches, but lets me touch him.

“How many times have you done this?”

“Clover came here about a year ago with her spell for the ritual. She and I have worked together for twelve moons, more or less.”

“More or less?”

“Before she came, I tried on my own.”

I picture the same ruthless motion from the ritual—knife, skin, cut—made over and over again, moon by moon. So many times that he’s lost count. “How did all of this even start?”

His eyes lower, his lashes veiling his gaze. He stays quiet for a long time. “It started because I did something terrible.”

“Do you mean what happened to your family?”

“Yes.” There’s no apology in his voice, none at all. “That, and many other things besides.”

“You really drowned them, didn’t you?”

“I told you already. Everything they say about me is true.”

My heart starts to beat faster. I blink, and all I can see is dark water. The water at the lake, the water that filled my room when I dreamed. The lake claimed their lives, and now the water, the shore, the earth is poisoned and ruined.

“So this is all your fault. And now you want Arien to fix it.”

“Yes.”

My hand is still on his arm. I press my fingers tighter, fixing my gaze on the scar just above his wrist, long healed and faded pale. He takes a sharp breath.

“You may have spent twelve moons and more hurting yourself this way”—I lift my eyes to his—“but I won’t let you do the same to him.”

A strange expression crosses Rowan’s face. It’s the same way he looked in the woods, when he was wounded and I was about to run away. The same way he looked in the firelight, when I caught him listening to my story.

“Arien wants to stay, and he wants to help. But—” I pull my hand away. “Don’t ever threaten him again. If you want something else from Arien, you’ll make time to tell the truth.”

“I will.”

I go back toward the trunk, kneel down, and open the lid. Part of me still wants to refuse Rowan’s gift, but my hand reaches inside, unbidden, to unfold the scraps of tissue paper. Silk and cotton and ribbons dance under my fingertips.

The dresses are finer than anything I’ve ever owned. Than I’ve ever touched. They’re the colors of sky, of sunset: peach and sage and lilac. Skirts full of lace. Sleeves lined with delicate embroidery.

And I want them. I want them so badly that when I touch them, I half expect the feverish longing in my hands to scorch through the fabric. I take out a dress. Pale cream cotton with a pattern of tiny crescent moons embroidered around the collar.

I hold it against my chest and stroke the delicate fabric. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

Rowan turns, his hand on the door, about to leave. He looks from the dress to me. “You’re welcome.”

“Will you wait?” He stops, startled. “I need to get dressed, but I want you to show me to the library after I’m done. I’ll never find it otherwise. Your wretched house is too big.”