Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)(34)
I stride to the back counter, shoving my shaking hands in my pockets as I walk. It’s been six hours since my last calming potion, six hours since I drank the blue liquid that keeps me floating just a little outside myself, outside the worst of the pain. The potion that banishes the thoughts that would destroy me, of blood and sightless creatures, of rotting flesh and a soul-shattering scream.
Danial says it’s time to stop abusing the potion or risk terrible side effects, but he doesn’t understand that I need this to survive, to keep seeing my silent visions of Evander, all I have left of him. And if Danial won’t fetch the potion for me anymore, I’ll just buy it myself. Vaia knows I’ve got enough gold to afford what I need, between my savings and what Evander left sitting in Grenwyr Treasury under my name.
Maybe he did see this coming, or something like it, after all.
My insides twist into hundreds of tiny knots when I think of using Evander’s coins to buy a calming potion that makes me numb, makes me see his phantom so I won’t forget his face. But he’ll never know, so I guess it’s not really hurting anyone.
As I wait for the apothecary or one of his assistants to appear, I drum my fingers on the long counter and my hand comes away caked in dust. The wall behind the counter is stacked to the ceiling with glass jars, and one in the middle is full of the bitter-apple liquid I badly need. I study the waist-high counter, trying to decide whether I can jump it, when a soft voice gasps, “Odessa!”
A jolt runs through me. I straighten and glance at the woman who’s appeared behind the counter, her usually beautiful features pinched in a frown.
“What are you doing here?” Lyda Crowther demands, leaning against the other side of the counter so we’re nose-to-nose.
At almost the same time, I blurt, “You shouldn’t be here.”
Lyda’s always worked a few days a week at the city apothecary. She doesn’t have a keen eye for mixing potions—hers are blue, of course, not brown—but she says she likes working much better than sitting in the manor all day arranging tea parties, and the head apothecary was in need of someone to manage the front of the shop. But Lyda shouldn’t be here today. Not with Evander so recently laid in the ground.
“Odessa.” Lyda’s voice is low and urgent. She grips my upper arm, her fingernails pricking my skin beneath my thin shirt. “Are you all right?”
Blinking, I realize I’m leaning against the counter with a hand pressed to my forehead. “I’m a little dizzy,” I confess as I take in Lyda’s appearance. “But I’ll be fine. The more important question is, how are you?”
Lyda purses her lips, like she’s not sure how to answer. There are no smudges under her eyes, and her pale skin is flawless as ever. Her stiff, high-collared sapphire dress is neat and unwrinkled, and her hands are perfectly manicured. But I know as well as anyone that we all wear scars others can’t see.
“I’m managing,” Lyda says at last. “Elibeth’s taking some time off from her duties at the kennels to help me sort through all of Evander’s things. We’ll be donating them to the Convent of Death.” She draws a heavy breath. “And Meredy’s on her way home as well, though I wish it was under happier—”
“You’re giving away Evander’s belongings? All of them?” My face warms, and heat creeps up the back of my neck.
Lyda reaches out to smooth my hair, and I pull away. She lowers her hand, frowning again. “I’ve been through this before, remember?” Her voice is just above a whisper, like she can’t bear to hear the words coming from her own mouth. “With my husband. And for me, the best way to move on is to purge the manor of reminders of the deceased.”
“The deceased?” I repeat the words through numb lips. “Did you ever bother asking Evander what he wanted you to do with all his things if he—if he died?” My vision grows hazy, as though Lyda’s standing behind a cloud of smoke, but I continue. “Or how about asking me? He was mine, and no one’s asked me what I thought he wanted!”
Silence settles over us as we lock eyes, the perfumed air too thick to carry sound. Lyda’s eyes are round with shock or revulsion or something else I can’t name.
I struggle for what feels like hours to get my tongue and throat working again. “I mean,” I finally manage in a steady-enough voice, “he was my partner. And I loved him. He was going to tell you. We were going to move to the palace together.” I pause to wipe the sweat beading on my forehead. “Right after we killed the Shade, he was going to tell you.”
“I already knew,” Lyda says slowly. She glances down at her hands, making it impossible to read her expression. “I’ve known for a year or so. Love is difficult to disguise.”
“You knew,” I repeat flatly. “You knew we were in love, but you reminded Van all the time that he couldn’t marry a necromancer with your blessing—why?”
Swallowing hard, I taste the sour beginnings of anger, the realest, strongest thing I’ve felt in days.
“I thought it would make you both give up the job,” Lyda whispers, still not meeting my eyes. Tears spill onto her cheeks. “I thought, if you wanted each other badly enough, more than you wanted the job, you’d give it up, and then you’d both live long, happy lives. I was trying to save you!”