Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(27)

He raises a brow. “Did you want me to draw you a map?”

“Here, I’ll start one for you.” I sketch out an imagined shape in the air, then point at the spaces to indicate rooms. “Locked, locked, locked, library.”

He smiles faintly and shakes his head at me. “I’ll wait outside your room.”

We’ve spent almost a week together. I know what he is and now I know for sure what he’s done. And it feels strange, to tease him like this. More strange for how easily it comes.

I collect a few more things from the trunk—a camisole, lace-hemmed undergarments, and a handful of hairpins—then walk to the corner, where a screen divides the washstand from the rest of the room. I hold my new dress up before the window. Light shimmers over it, and the gossamer layers of fabric glow as they catch the sun. It’s beautiful.

I undress quickly, feeling embarrassed to be doing this while Rowan is just outside the room, even though he can’t see me. I’m embarrassed, too, when I put on the new undergarments, knowing that they were a gift. I scowl at my flushed cheeks in the mirror above the washstand, then slip the dress over my head.

There’s a long, ribboned sash at the waist. A row of tiny, pearlescent buttons all along the back. I knot the sash. The buttons are awkward to reach, but I manage to fasten most of them. Then I sweep my hair into a haphazard braid and wind it into a crown, pinned around my head. My feet are bare, since I left my mud-caked boots down in the kitchen. The skirts wash about my legs like mist.

I feel like some made-up, dewdrop-fine creature from a story. I can’t stop running my fingers along the sash and over the embroidery that edges the sleeves.

When I step out of the room, Rowan looks me over, from my pinned braids to the fall of the skirts. His mouth tilts slightly when he notices my bare feet.

“Come on, then.” He turns and moves farther into the hallway, waiting for me to follow him.

We go across the landing. The air is dim, lit by only the faintest drifts of afternoon light. My bare feet leave prints on the dusty floor. He walks behind me, deliberately measuring his pace so we don’t walk side by side. At the top of the stairs, Rowan puts his hand on my shoulder. “Violeta. You—your…” He trails off.

I turn around to look at him, confused. “What?”

He motions awkwardly to the back of my dress. “You missed some buttons.”

I reach my arm to my back. Bare skin, the lace band of my camisole, then a row of empty buttonholes. Oh. Heat creeps over my face as I twist around, trying to fasten them, but they’re too small, and they slip away from my fingers.

Hesitantly, I turn my back to him. “I can’t reach them. Can you, please?”

He doesn’t move. I wait, feeling exposed with the buttons undone and him just standing there.

Eventually, with a rough sigh, Rowan reaches out and tries to catch hold of the buttons without touching me, but he can’t. He pauses, takes off his gloves, then tries again. His fingers brush over my skin. Without the gloves, his hands are warm, his fingertips rasped by calluses.

“Ash.” His hands drop. “Sorry, I—”

He takes hold of the dress with another muttered curse. I feel the shift and tug of fabric and pearl. Sparks of heat dance through my fingers. At the center of my chest I feel a strange pull, as though a thread has been knotted up inside me.

At last he fastens the final button and rests his hand, flat, over the nape of my neck. I step away from him.

“Thank you.” The words are half-stuck in my throat.

He walks forward briskly, forcing me to catch up. “The library is this way.”

As I follow him down the stairs, my hand drifts up to curl over the back of my neck. I press down on the memory of his touch on my skin.





Chapter Nine


The library is sunlight and polished wood, a row of windows that reveals a sky hazed with summer clouds. The walls are lined with shelves, shrouded in dust cloths. At the center of the room, Arien and Clover sit together at a large table that’s cluttered with papers and books and ink pots and pens.

Arien gets to his feet when he sees Rowan and me come in.

“Come and see what I’ve done!” He takes hold of my hand, his face alight with a pleased smile, as he pulls me farther into the room. “Clover taught me how to draw sigils. She’s so clever.”

Clover laughs. “Arien, you’re delightful. It helps that you are a very good student.”

Arien rifles through the piles of papers on the table. He finds a notebook and pushes it eagerly into my hands. I leaf carefully through the pages. The book is filled with intricate, beautiful illustrations drawn in delicate ink. I recognize the same interconnected symbols as the ones marked on Arien’s wrist and on Clover’s arms.

“Look.” He touches his fingers to the edge of a shape. “That’s iron, and this is gold, and this is salt…”

“All these elements are part of the magic that makes the world. The Lady’s light, separated into individual pieces,” Clover explains. “Every spell we cast draws on different elements. The more difficult the spell, the more elements you need, and the more complicated the sigil becomes.”

“And that’s how you channel the magic?” I ask. “You combine the elements to make a sigil?”

“That’s right.” Her eyes drop to her wrist, and she brushes her fingers idly over the markings. “And it’s forever marked onto your skin after.”