He inclines his head, regarding me with those bright, bright eyes. If I am not mistaken, he accepts the challenge with an eagerness that borders on desire. “Perhaps.”
Distant footsteps inform me that the women are heading downstairs for dinner. Meals cannot begin until everyone has arrived. Someone will notice my absence. They will question my delay.
“I would ask for the name of the woman who cared for me,” he says. “Surely you would not deny me that?”
I look to the door. I should go, yet my feet remain in place. “You are fair folk.” Though he does not look like one of their kind, his insistence on repaying debts makes perfect sense. The fair folk will do anything to gain leverage over another.
“No,” he says harshly, his tone suddenly acrimonious. “I am not one of the fair folk. But much of my time is spent in Under. Now will you tell me your name, or do you insist on remaining a mystery?”
I consider this man, the information given. The fair folk cannot tell a lie. It is good enough for me. “Brielle,” I concede. Just a name. So why does it feel as if I am granting this man more than he asked for?
“Brielle.” My name unfolds in a single wave of warm curiosity. “A lovely name for a lovely woman. I thank you, Brielle.” He touches a hand to his chest. “I am Zephyrus.”
Lovely? He hardly knows me. But I keep the thought to myself.
The man—Zephyrus—glides to my desk, scans the various liturgical manuscripts. He flips open the Text, idly shifting aside documents as though he has every right to. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my dagger.Don’t touch that.But the words will not come.
“What is your station at the abbey?” He glances over his shoulder at me, green eyes keen.
“Novitiate.” I’ve dedicated every spare moment to the consecrated life: deepening my relationship with the Father, examining the faith, expanding my self-awareness, understanding the importance of community. It has been no small task.
Leaning back against the desk, Zephyrus folds his arms over hischest, one ankle tossed lazily over the other. Candlelight gilds the curling tips of his hair. “How old are you?”
This, too, I am reluctant to announce, though it shouldn’t matter. “Twenty-one.”
His eyebrows wing upward in surprise. “How long ago did you enter the abbey?”
“When I was eleven.”
“You have been a novitiate for ten years? Shouldn’t you have taken your vows?”
“I have. My first vows, at least.” I will take my final vows once I’m appointed an acolyte, my commitment to the faith set in stone.
Generally, a novitiate studies for five years, although there are always exceptions to the rule. Following the novitiate phase, a Daughter of Thornbrook is appointed an acolyte, a station she will maintain for the rest of her life, as long as her final vows remain intact. It is possible to climb higher in station, as Mother Mabel has done, solidifying her religious leadership over the region, but a woman may climb no higher than abbess.
“Why haven’t you taken your final vows then?”
“It is not up to me,” I say, more tersely than I intend. “Mother Mabel decides who is ready to graduate. Considering there is only one slot available per year, it is understandably a difficult decision. My time as an acolyte will come.”
There is a silence. The longer we regard each other across the room, the stranger the man’s eyes seem. He cannot be human. The green fires too brightly. “You’re certain of that?”
“I have worked toward this for a long time,” I state. “Mother Mabel recognizes my efforts. She will choose whoever is best fit for the position.”
“And if that person is not you?”
Steel snaps my spine straight. What is the purpose of his animus? To prove a point? To draw the red to my skin?
I’ve considered the possibility. I’ve seen it come to pass too many times. Still, I hope.
“That woman with the black hair? She is hungry for the opportunity as well.” A lazy, pointed remark. The corner of his mouth tucks into his cheek. “What will you do if she is chosen over you?”
“Your antagonism is unnecessary.”
“Is it?” he croons, sidling closer. “I merely speak the truth.”
His scent hits: moss and rain. My throat opens; my heartbeat spikes. I’m so blindsided by my body’s response I fail to gather an appropriate retort. Instead, I glare at him, and Zephyrus winces, a hand going to his temple, as though his head pains him. “I must leave you now,” he mutters. “But first, there is something I would ask of you.”
“No.”
