Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(64)

I snatch back my hand. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“You didn’t even think, Leta. You act like my only choice is to stay back, that it doesn’t matter if you’re hurt because I’ll be safe.” He bites his lip. I can tell he’s trying not to cry. “You’re my sister. I want you to be safe, too.”

“He’s helped me before.” I try not to look at Arien’s hands. His arms. The thin, pale scars left from when Clover mended him are as delicate as embroidery. “He saved you.”

“You saved me.” Arien’s mouth curves into a sad smile. “What you did in the woods—what you asked the Lord Under, and how it changed me—I don’t blame you, Leta. But this is different. He’ll want more than your magic for this. You know that.”

“No, he won’t take my magic since he needs me to use it.” I run my hand over my arm, trace the outlines of the marks on my skin. “Although … he might change his mind once he knows I draw messy sigils.”

“You do realize you’re not at all funny.”

“Maybe he’ll want my sense of humor. Then you won’t have to listen to my jokes anymore.”

“Leta.” Arien grabs hold of my hand again. “He took Rowan’s whole family. What do you have to offer that can equal that?”

I glance back over my shoulder, to where the road stretches behind us. We’ve gone far from the estate now. All around us are only trees and fields and the darkening sky. I think again of what Arien said after the first failed ritual. When I tried to make him leave, and he insisted that we stay. When he showed me the sigil on his wrist and told me, I couldn’t do anything to help you before, but now I can.

At the time, I hadn’t understood how or why he’d want to use his magic in such a dangerous way. But now I’ve gotten that same chance. A way to make up for all the time I’ve spent powerless.

“I want to help.” My voice goes out soft into the trees. “I want to do this.”

Arien scrubs his wrist across his face, and his eyes fill with tears. “At least give us some time before you summon him again. We can still figure out another way. Please, just tell me you won’t.”

“I won’t.” I wrap my arms around him. The other words hang unspoken between us. Not yet. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m still so mad at you.” He takes a deep, unsteady breath to swallow back his tears. “Why do you have to be so—”

“Terrible, awful, the most foolish sister ever?” I hold Arien tighter and realize he’s grown since we came to the estate. “Hey,” I mutter against his chest. “Who said you were allowed to get so tall?”

I reach up and run my hand through his hair, knocking the wreath askew as I mess up his curls. He shoves me away, laughing. I trip over my feet, and he catches me before I can fall. I lean against him and laugh, too.

Things don’t feel entirely mended between us, but they’re a little softer. By the time we reach the village, the sun has set. The cottages around the square are black silhouettes, their windows lit by reflected lamplight. It looks much the same as when we passed through on our way to Lakesedge. Thatch-roofed cottages, a grove of trees, the altar at one side. The unlit bonfire is at the center of the square, the pile of branches and flowers and leaves circled by granite stones.

Everyone is dressed in white, hair unbound and wreathed with leaves or flowers. The crowd is a hum of voices—chatter, laughter, calls of greeting. It’s the first time in months that we’ve been around so many people. It’s dizzying to be among the noise of the crowd, after all the silence of the estate. My skin is warmer. My heart beats faster.

Arien and I pause beside the row of tables that border the square. They’re laden with food. Marzipan cakes shaped like petals. Almond crescents dusted with frost-pale sugar. Enamelware pitchers of cider, spiced with peppercorn and cinnamon.

I take a cup of cider. Anise flowers float on the surface like fragrant stars. I sip. The sweetness of it spreads through me until the air wavers a little. I blink as the light shimmers. Then I see Rowan, half-hidden in the shadows beside the altar.

He looks so much like he did that day in our cottage. He’s dressed all in black, with the hood of his cloak pulled low over his face. His gloved hands are clenched at his sides, and his eyes are fixed on the ground.

Then he looks up. Our eyes meet. He pushes back the hood of his cloak in an abrupt gesture. His hair is unadorned, the top half tied back into a knot. Light from the lanterns outlines him in gold. His mouth parts, as though he means to speak, but he only stares at me, wordless, as Arien and I move toward him.

“Leta.” His voice goes soft. “You—you look—”

I reach and tuck back a strand of his hair that’s come loose. “You forgot your wreath. Want me to make one for you? I can get some vines from the bonfire before it’s alight.”

“No.”

“Don’t think about it too hard,” I tease. “You could at least say No, thank you.”

His mouth tilts into a begrudging smile. He puts his hand lightly on my waist, drawing me closer, but then his face turns wary as he looks out into the crowd.

Florence walks toward us, followed by someone else—a tall, broad-shouldered man. After a few moments I realize I recognize him from Greymere. Keeper Harkness is even more serious than he was on the tithe day. He carries a basket of bundled pine-stem torches, each tied neatly at the end with twine, and passes them out as he moves through the square.