Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(61)

As he pushes her hand away, his sleeve falls back. When Clover catches sight of the bandage, her face grows serious, and she reaches toward his arm. “May I see?”

“No, you may not.”

“Clover, don’t you want to put those herbs into the stillroom before they wilt?” I walk over and take the kettle down, fill it with water, and set it onto the stove with a loud clatter. “Arien is probably awake now. I’ll make him some tea.”

“Oh yes, the stillroom.” She gives us both a pointed smile. “I’ll leave the two of you alone.”

She takes the basket into the small space beside the kitchen where she keeps her alchemy supplies. Through the half-closed door, I hear the rustle and scrape as she moves around. The snip of her scissors as she cuts twine to string up the fresh herbs. The kettle begins to hum, the water quickly boiled from the too-hot stove. I wrap a cloth around my hand and lift it away from the heat.

Clover comes back with a jar of dried flowers and a small handful of mint and feverfew. She takes down a tray and an enamelware cup, then fills the teapot with leaves and hot water and sifts in a spoonful of flowers.

“Don’t forget,” she says to Rowan, “you’re supposed to go to the village later. Keeper Harkness wants to talk with you about the Summersend bonfire.”

“Oh, wonderful.” He rubs his forehead, scowling. “Exactly what I wanted to do today.”

At the word—Summersend—I go still. The first night of Summersend is the time when the border between the worlds Above and Below is said to be the thinnest. Each village lights a bonfire, and everyone gathers to chant the litany as the wood and bundled greenery burns down to ashes.

It always filled me with equal parts fear and wonder. Some of the night was like a beautiful dream. The smell of woodsmoke and spiced cider, Arien and me amid the crowd with flowers worn in our hair, our hands sticky from marzipan cakes. But the crackle and spark of flames against the sky always drew out memories of an older, crueler fire I wanted to forget. Arien’s dreams were always the worst on those nights.

And now Summersend carries a new kind of weight. The next full moon is the week after the bonfire.

“Do you have a white dress?” Clover asks me. I nod and she smiles, pleased. “I’ll help you with the embroidery. And we can make wreaths!”

“We are not going,” Rowan says.

“You have to go, since you’re the lord. And it will be nice for all of us to do something fun.” She twists the teapot back and forth to stir the leaves. Steam drifts from the spout. “Violeta, we can take this up to Arien now.”

She sets the pot onto the tray beside the cup, while I fetch the jar of honey and a small wooden spoon. I follow her out of the room with everything balanced carefully. Rowan stays behind in the kitchen, but as I leave, he calls quietly after me. “Please, Leta, just … think on it, before you do anything else.”

I close the door between us without replying. As Clover and I walk up the stairs, she arches a brow and looks meaningfully back toward the kitchen. “Didn’t touch the fire, hm?”

I let out a breath, grateful for the cool air in the hallway, how it washes over me in place of the kitchen stove heat. “It’s … complicated.”

She snorts back a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure it is.”

I want so much to join in her good-natured teasing, but the mark on my palm has begun to ache. My whole hand feels painfully numb, like frost has been stitched beneath my skin. It’s an unavoidable reminder of what I’ve done, what I’m going to do.

Arien’s room is filled with early sunlight, the window open to a stretch of cloudless sky. He’s curled on his side, still half-asleep. Florence sits beside the bed, a spill of whitework embroidery on her lap. They both look up at us as we enter.

I wish I could preserve this moment, just stand here in the sunlit room and hold all my secrets close. I take a deep breath, searching for the right words to tell them everything. “I need to talk to you about the next ritual.”

Arien sits up delicately, mindful of his arms, and reaches for the tray with his bandaged hands. The confusion in his eyes shifts to wariness as he takes in my expression. “Leta, what’s wrong?”

I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, careful not to tip the tray. “First, I have to explain what really happened in the Vair Woods.”

He lifts the pot and pours tea into his cup. “You already told me about that.”

“Not the whole truth. I did give up my magic. But it wasn’t for myself, Arien. It was for you.”

He clenches the honey jar in his hands, the motion so similar to the one he’s made, repeatedly, during practice for the ritual. He puts it down, unopened. “You gave the Lord Under your magic to save me?”

I nod. “That’s why your magic has changed. He told me it always leaves a mark, when he helps anyone. And that’s why…” I swallow, steadying myself, then go on. “That’s why you were hurt at the ritual. I asked him to save you then, too.”

“You asked him?” Florence cuts in. She draws her fingers across her chest, her eyes widening. “Violeta, don’t you realize how dangerous that was?”

“What else was she supposed to do, let Arien be eaten by those creatures?” Clover pulls restlessly at her braid, looking queasy. “No wonder your wounds were so hard to mend.”