The Will and the Wilds(13)

I touch my lips, my true inexperience pulsing at my fingertips. My mother married my father when she was but eighteen. I, at twenty, have never so much as kissed a man. To think that my first kiss could be with a mysting, let alone this mysting, tears apart my very soul . . . I shiver despite the warmth of summer.

I clear the wildwood and see my home, ringed with oon berry, ahead. My father is outside, beating a rug, and spots me. He waves one arm. He may wonder where I’ve been, or think he’s merely mistaken the time. I can never be sure.

Time. I have so very little. And what if Maekallus’s guess was generous? What if he—we—have less than a full turn of the sun?

I wipe away a tear with the heel of my hand. I should not cry. My mother never wept, or so my relatives have told me. I’ve strived to be as strong as she was, yet another tear escapes, and another. I slow my pace so my father will not see, then slip around him and into the house.

My hand aches. I clean the wound again—several stitches have popped free, revealing black corruption mingling with blood. I bite my tongue to keep from gagging and use the rest of the thorrow herb to numb the sting. I try not to imagine that black ooze consuming my arm, my chest, bubbling and popping and—

I rush to the washbasin, but not quickly enough. Falling to my knees, I vomit onto the kitchen floor.





I try to apply my thoughts elsewhere, but it’s of no use. I burn dinner, leaving my father to eat bread and cheese for his evening meal. I don’t eat anything. My stomach has twisted too tightly. My pulse hasn’t settled. The Telling Stone hangs useless at my wrist. At least, though Maekallus failed to seal the bargain we made, the gobler hasn’t come back. At least there is that.

As the sun begins to set, I look out the kitchen window toward the three graves at the back of our property. Their stones are small, and oon berry and lavender cluster like weeds over them, protecting them from the worst kinds of mysting. My father has already lost his wife and his parents. I imagine him plunging his shovel into the ground a fourth time to dig a resting place for me. Me, whom he gave up so much to protect.

I weep.

So this is it. I’ve two options: kiss Maekallus or leave him to die. The outcome of either choice is unsure.

Let Maekallus die, and die with him.

Let Maekallus die, and hope I live.

Kiss Maekallus and save him, but lose my soul.

Kiss Maekallus and save him, and myself.

It’s a chance, albeit one that requires me to trust that the narval being devoured in the wildwood will not devour me.

But before I do that, I must do something else. Whether I live or die, I want one good memory to cling to. And so after I settle my father by the fire, I sneak out the kitchen door and venture toward town, my path lit orange by the sunset. It feels strange to walk this way without a basket on my arm, for I never go into town unless driven by need, and that need is always to sell and to buy. Empty handed save for a lantern, I feel awkward. I notice the people around me more, and even if they don’t glance my way, my mind tricks me into feeling their stares. My pulse echoes against my hand. I force myself forward. I will not cow from this, though I’ve never in my life been so bold about anything.

By the time I reach the Lovess farm, I’m sweating, so I slow down and let the descending twilight cool me. I light my lantern and check my pockets for tapis root, just in case my stone chills. But the Telling Stone remains only cool, a reminder of Maekallus’s distant presence.

My belly flutters when I reach the farmhouse, like my body is stuffed with grass clippings stirred by the wind. I keep moving onward. Reach the door and knock. If I die tonight, and if I keep my memories in the world beyond, I will regret not doing this. Tennith can turn me away, certainly. But at least I will have tried.

Fate pities me, for it is he who answers the door. Changed out of his riding leathers into mud-stained breeches and a loose linen shirt tucked snugly at the waist. The laces of his collar are done up tightly and modestly. Light from the hearth makes his hair look the deepest shade of gold.

He does not hide the surprise from his blue eyes, or from his voice. “Enna? It’s almost dark—has something happened?”

“Who is it?” calls his mother. I’m grateful when he doesn’t answer.

“Nothing is amiss,” I whisper, embarrassed to know his family is so near. “But . . . I must speak with you, if you’ll grant me a moment. Alone.”

His brow furrows ever so slightly, but he nods, then calls back into the house to say a chicken is loose. He lies so easily. I wonder if an escaped animal is commonplace, or if he’s needed reason to leave home at night before. Perhaps his wits are simply quicker than I give him credit for.

I don’t linger on the subject. He closes the door. “This way,” he says, and steps past me. I smell earth and lavender on his clothes as he passes. I extinguish my lantern, preferring to lose any looming humiliation to the shadows.

He brings me past the house, around to the barn. It’s locked up for the night. I hear the shifting of cattle and a few bleating sheep within. Twilight fills the air with hues of violet and indigo. He stops by the side of the barn, and I linger near him, somehow able to feel the heat radiating from him.

“Enna . . .” His voice is soft. “What’s happened? Your father?”

I manage the smallest smile. “Did you not believe me when I said nothing is amiss?” It was a lie, but I cannot trust the truth of my peril to Tennith. I dare not even confide in my own father. Not where a mysting is concerned.