Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(7)

He’s young—older than me, but not by much. His hair is past his shoulders. The waves are swept back loosely, the top half tied up into a knot with a length of black cord. Even with the summer heat, he wears a heavy cloak draped across one shoulder. There are scars on his face. A scatter of jagged marks from his brow to his jaw.

He looks me up and down, his expression unreadable. “What do you offer?”

I feel his words like midwinter, cold and sharp. The light flickers, and for just a heartbeat, there’s something there at the corner of my vision.

I remember a long-ago voice in a frost-laden forest. The question it whispered close against my ear.

What will you offer me?

I bite my lip, hard, and pull myself back to the present. “Nothing. I—I don’t—”

Arien takes the basket from me and puts it onto the table. “Sour cherries. That’s our offering. And the altar, mended.”

The monster looks over to where Mother is packing away her paints. The wooden altar frame is glossed with new varnish. On the shelf below, the candles have been lit, bathing the icon in light.

I take hold of Arien’s arm, about to lead him away.

“Wait.” The monster’s boots crush against the ground. He steps closer. “Stay a moment.”

I move in front of Arien. Damp, tense sweat is slick on my palms, but I square my shoulders and meet the monster’s dark gaze evenly. “We don’t have anything else for you.”

“Oh?” There’s something feral in the way he moves, like a fox stalking a hare. “Oh, I think you do.”

“No, we don’t.”

The monster holds out his hands. He’s wearing black gloves, and the cuffs of his shirt are laced tightly all the way down his wrists. He motions to Arien, then waits expectantly. “Go on, show me.”

Arien lifts his own hands in an echo of the monster’s gesture. My brother’s fingers, burned clean last night by the altar candles, are now stained dark.

The monster flicks me a glance. “That isn’t quite nothing, is it?”

“It’s—”

He turns back to Arien, and the feral look on his face intensifies. “Tell me: How did you get those marks?”

Arien looks at me helplessly. This is all my fault. I promised to protect him.

Fear and fury rise through me in a hot, wavery rush. I shove my way between them until I’m right up against the monster, the scuffed toes of my boots against his polished ones. “Our mother is a painter. They’re stains from the paint.”

He stares coldly down at me. He’s beautiful, but wrongness clings to him. It’s as cloying as the bittersweet scent of sugar in the kitchen last night. Between the laces of his shirt collar, I catch a glimpse of something dark on his throat. I watch, horrified, as all the veins along his neck turn vivid, like streaks of ink drawn under the surface of his skin.

Then I blink, and whatever I saw—whatever I thought I saw—is gone.

The monster’s mouth curves into a faint smile.

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Clearly I was mistaken.”

All I want to do is grab Arien and run away, but I force myself to be still. I scrunch my fingers into the edges of my skirts. “You were.”

He takes off his gloves roughly and throws them onto the ground at Arien’s feet. “Keep them.”

He walks away without sparing either of us another glance, his newly bared hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cloak.

Arien bends down to pick up the gloves. He pulls them on quickly. No matter how hard I stare at him, he won’t look at me. Together, we go across the square to join the crowd that’s gathered at the altar. We kneel down and put our hands against the earth.

“Arien,” I murmur. “Before, in the forest—”

“Please forget about it. About the forest. About leaving.” He turns his face toward the icon, the bank of golden candles. “About everything.”

We start to chant the summer litany. I close my eyes and press my fingers into the dirt. As the light washes over me, I try to lose myself in warmth and song. But all I can think is there might be nowhere in this world, now, where I can keep my brother safe.





Chapter Three


It’s almost sunset when we reach home. Mother goes into the cottage, but Arien and I stay outside in the garden. The evening sky is cloudless, endless. Wind stirs through the branches of our orchard, and the air is heavy with lingering heat. I walk through the rows of summer plants, breathe the scent of sage and nettle as my skirts brush past the leaves. Arien follows me.

We go into the well house. It’s dim inside, lit only by faint palings of light that come through the cracks in the walls. I lift the heavy wooden cover and pull the bucket up from the water beneath. There’s always something eerie in this moment. That space between surface and water. The deep, silent well with the blur of ripples far below.

I wash my sweat-grimed face with a handful of water. Arien takes off the gloves and holds them, crumpled in his fist. He looks wrung out. His face is pale, and his eyes are circled with fatigue. I put my hand on the back of his neck, and he sighs as he leans against the cold of my palm.

“We could still leave.” My whisper echoes down through the darkness. The sound lingers. Leave. Leave. Leave.