Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(65)

Thea and Clover trail behind, carrying another basket between themselves. In her long, pale dress, Thea is as beautiful as a crescent moon. Her curled black hair is crowned with summer roses, and her skirts are embroidered with a pattern of bellflowers. She and Clover both look shy and awkward, like they can’t think of what to say to each other.

Keeper Harkness reaches us, and sets his basket down near the altar. He dips his fingers into the salt beneath the icon, then drops a handful of petals across the wooden shelf. He glances at Rowan. “Lord Sylvanan. We’re almost ready.”

Rowan nods, but he doesn’t speak. Thea hands Arien a torch, then gives one to me with a confused, pleased smile. “Oh! I know you both from the tithe day! Whatever are you doing here?”

“They’re guests at the estate.” Clover adjusts her glasses and shakes back her hair. She gives Thea a proud look. “Arien and Violeta are my students.”

“You’re all alchemists?” Thea raises her eyebrows. She looks as though she can’t quite decide if she’s excited, or afraid. She bites her lip as her eyes drift toward Arien’s gloved hands. “Why aren’t you in the Maylands?”

“This is a special assignment.” I lean close and whisper conspiratorially, “Lord Sylvanan is going to use me for his next blood sacrifice.”

Thea lets out a startled laugh and steps back. She looks warily at Rowan before she slips into the crowd. He glares at me murderously.

Florence gives us both a look. “Shall we begin?”

“Please, before Leta says another word and we’re all chased out of here with pitchforks.” Rowan pulls at the tie that fastens his hair, tightening the knot. Then he picks up a torch from the basket and steps forward.

Everyone goes still, and a nervous current ripples through the crowd. It’s as though they had almost forgotten about him while he was in the shadows beside the altar. But now he’s stepped out into the light.

The villagers here aren’t as panicked as people were in Greymere. But the more I look around, the more I see signs of their fear. Garlands of rosemary and sage are strung protectively over windows, and there are scatters of salt across all the doorways. Every now and then, someone will raise their hands to their chest and draw their fingers across their heart.

The way they watch him, it’s the same way I looked at him, once. It’s strange now to see the fear I felt reflected on all those other faces.

And Rowan looks every part the monster they believe him to be.

He notes their fear, and he doesn’t flinch from it. He meets it unrelentingly with a hard, cold stare. The scars on his brow and jaw and throat seem to glow, crimson and raised. And every now and then, so swift it could almost be a flicker of lamplight, shadows shift beneath his skin. Threads of darkness unfurl then soften back to faint, blurred marks. The monster, the boy, the monster.

I take hold of his hand. He tenses, but after a breath, his fingers weave through mine. I run my thumb across his gloved palm.

He leans down to murmur to me, his voice low. “Do you think to hold my hand and show them all they shouldn’t be afraid of me?”

“Maybe.” I rise up on tiptoe, so I can murmur back. “Maybe I just want to be the girl who held the hand of a monster.”

He gives me a faint smile. He takes a torch and sets it to the altar candles. It springs alight with the sharp scent of pine. Then he moves out into the square. He doesn’t let go of my hand, so I follow him.

Everyone draws back as we come toward them, the crowd parting into halves. Rowan strides down the path left at the center. His cloak is a spill of ink, his gaze is remote, almost otherworldly. I walk beside him, the skirts of my gemstone dress rustling around me. I feel like a faerie creature from one of my books. Violet in the woods. A tangle of whispers follows us, a sound that’s half fear, half wonder.

Once we’ve reached the fire, there’s a moment of stillness before everyone begins to move, until they’ve formed a single line that spirals around the granite stones. Rowan holds out his torch to me. I feel the heat of the flames as he lights the bundle of pine in my hand. I turn to Arien, who smiles at me as his torch comes alight.

One by one, torch by torch, the firelight spreads. We move forward to set our torches into the pile of branches and leaves. The fire is slow at first, all smoke and acrid, new-burned greenery, then the wind catches it. Sparks weave up hungrily through the bonfire, until it shimmers and dances against the sunset sky.

The silence draws out, longer and longer, broken only by a scatter of whispers. This is the part of the bonfire where we sing the litany. In Greymere, the keeper would lead the chant. But tonight, of course, it will be Rowan. He looks back to the altar, and I feel his hand flinch. His fingers tighten against mine.

I remember what he told me, at the Midsummer observance. I don’t like to sing when people can hear me. And now there is a whole village ready to listen.

I lean over and whisper, “Should we do a blood sacrifice instead of the chant?”

He glares at me, but before he can speak, I start to sing. There’s a puzzled mutter in the crowd, and no one joins in. An embarrassed heat prickles me, because I’m used to my voice being woven into the sound of others. Alone, it rings out off-key, a note stuck somewhere between head and chest. But as I finish the first stanza, a voice beside me picks up the chant. Arien. Then Clover, then Florence.

For a breath, it’s just the four of us who sing. And I’m back in the garden, at the altar beneath the jacaranda tree. When I put my hands in the earth. When I let go of my magic and my truth, and light sparked through the ground. At the memory, a stillness comes over me. The crescent at my palm throbs. I picture a full moon. My magic kindled from a faint spark to a blaze as large as the Summersend fire. Light and heat and power.