Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(74)

“I heard you say you wished,” he started to turn away. “Never mind. It was just a thought.”

“Wait.” I reached a hand out to stop him. “I’ll go.”





Chapter 36


THE STONECUTTER’S SCAFFOLDING WAS DRAPED IN YARDS of scarlet silk, disguising our climb.

“Are you sure this thing will hold us?” I whispered as the wobbly wooden structure creaked beneath our weight.

Bran’s ash-colored tunic blended with the dappled stone of Westminster Abbey as he spoke from a few rungs above me. “It better,” he said. “I paid the mason a fortune to let us have his spot.” He frowned, letting his gaze drift down my simple gray gown. “Unless you weigh more than a half ton of granite?”

I punched him in the leg.

He was still chuckling as we emerged onto a narrow platform that butted up against the ceiling. Crouching, we eased over to the edge and settled, arms propped on a rickety wooden railing. Our boots dangled a hundred feet above the floor.

Even at this great height, the sweet melange of melting beeswax and incense wafted up in waves, mixing with the lilting voices of a hundred choir boys. Carefully, Bran parted the rippling silk. I sucked in a sharp breath.

Our bird’s-eye view was perfect. Far beneath, the new king and queen of England knelt on the steps of the altar, upon which sat two thrones. One large and sturdy. The other smaller, delicate. As the song faded, the magnificently robed archbishop of Canterbury raised his arms before them. I shivered when the king and queen made sacred vows that echoed up to us, as clear as if we stood at their side.

The priest took a small bottle and anointed the royals with holy oil, then placed the crowns of England on their heads.

Henry helped Eleanor rise. Once they were seated on their thrones, the archbishop lay the scepter and orb in Henry’s waiting arms. He turned and threw up his hands as he called, “God save the king. God save the queen.”

The roar blew the roof off the place. The reverberation rocked the scaffolding beneath us.

“Can you believe we’re actually seeing this?” I elbowed Bran in my excitement. “It’s so surreal.”

I glanced over to see if he felt it. The sense of wonder at witnessing this incredible piece of history. But Bran wasn’t watching what played out below. No. He was looking at me. Watching my face, my reactions. A fluttery heat skittered across my skin, like butterflies on fire.

“Thank you for this,” I whispered.

The smile that lit his eyes left me breathless.

He leaned in, and I could almost taste his scent on my tongue. Salt and wood shavings. Snow and smoke. And somehow . . . the winey tang of overripe apples.

“Hope,” he whispered. His eyes darted from my eyes to my lips and back, as if he couldn’t see everything at once. “There’s something I need to tell—”

A furious cheer erupted. We both turned to see the royals marching down the central aisle, a long trail of nobles in their wake. I leaned forward, thrilled to see the crabbed, dark figure of Sister Hectare take her place behind her queen.

Standing, I leaned over the waist-high railing, scanning the top of each head to see if I could recognize my mother. There were too many, crowded in too close. Agitated, I huffed and stretched out a little more.

“Come on,” Bran scrambled to his feet. “We should probably get—”

The flimsy barrier gave beneath my weight. As if in slow motion, I watched it tumble, snagging against the silk drapes as it plummeted to the abbey floor, the crash lost in the tumult of cheers and song. I had time for one, oddly calm thought before I pitched headfirst off the edge of the platform.

I’m sorry, Mom.

A rip of pain knifed through my hip as I jolted to a gut-wrenching halt. Above me, Bran crouched at the platform’s edge, straining as he gripped the gray hem of my skirt and one, booted foot. Blood flooded my brain, filling my ears with the pounding of my own heartbeat.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

“Hold on,” he growled. “I won’t let you go. I swear it.”

High above the marble floor, Bran cursed under his breath. His fingers dug desperately into my ankle as I swayed upside down. If anyone looked up, they’d see me, a gray pendulum against scarlet silk. My heart boomed, missing beats. Blood swelled my face as Bran began to haul me up, inch by painful inch. He reached out and grabbed my flailing hand. With a great heave, he jerked. I flew up and landed smack on top of him, nose to nose on the splintery platform.

Quaking with shock, I tried to form a coherent word. “I . . . I didn’t . . .”

“You know,” Bran panted as he stared up into my face, “If you wanted to get on top of me, you could’ve just said. No need for such dramatics.” The flippant words were all Bran. But he negated them by wrapping me in his arms.

Electric flicks of adrenaline sparked across the back of my tongue, making my teeth chatter. Bran squeezed tighter, and despite what had nearly happened, I began to feel safe. To feel alive, as if up until that second, I’d only been pretending to live.

After a long moment, while our breaths synced and Bran’s arms trembled with strain and something else, I became acutely aware of the long lines of his body pressed beneath mine.

“So,” I answered him, teeth still clacking as I rolled off and rose on jittery legs. “Yeah, the next time you save me from diving off a hundred-foot drop, I’ll remember to ask.”