As I depart my bedroom, something creaks behind me, and I glance over my shoulder. The window shutters swing open, revealing the ferocious black waters of the strait in the distance, a line of soot ground into the space between the cliffs and the Gray’s rocky shore. A scented breeze drifts inside: spring.
My slow, drudging pulse begins to climb. Something flashes in my periphery, and it is a wonder I’m able to rein in my ire as I spin around to face Zephyrus.
“Get out.”
The West Wind arches a brow. He practically glows with health, curls ashine, skin kissed by a rosy hue. His face, however, maintains its strange, angular appearance, even without the swelling and gore. “Is that any way to greet a guest?”
“You are not welcome here,” I snap.
His lips curve. A dangerous thing, that mouth, able to snarl and croon in equal measure. “So thereisfire within you. I was wondering when it would manifest.”
That he treats my anger like a performance to witness prods my fury from its doze. Even my red curls spring from their confinement.
Moving to the door, I engage the lock. I cannot risk anyone discovering him here. Then I whirl around to face him again. “I will not repeat myself. I wish never to see or speak to you again. Leave.”
Closer he sidles, padding with all the quiet of a barn cat. White tunic, rough trousers, weathered boots. I am remembering the way his garb, drenched from the water of the spring, clung to his frame. I promptly shut the door on such thoughts.
“I admit, your anger confuses me,” he muses, with a softness that borders on uncertainty. “I thought you would be pleased. After all, I gave you the opportunity to learn the answer to the question closest to your heart.”
“You assumed incorrectly.” I never should have agreed to accompany him, but I allowed myself to dream.
He stops at my desk, skimming a hand over my copy of the Text, open to the Book of Truth—last night’s reading. The West Wind, standing in my room, stealing the air. A god. I cannot believe it.
“What has changed?” A calm inquiry, yet tension simmers underneath.
Nothing, and everything. I have glimpsed things—terrible, lovely, yearning things—in a world that is not for me.
“It is simple,” I state. “I will not be returning to Under, nor will I associate with you in the future.”
“You have not answered the question.”
“Because it is none of your business.”
“Is it not?” His hands slide into his pockets. If only I could read him better. “Tell me why.”
I consider it—sayingno. “Should Mother Mabel learn of my visit to Under, I could be cast from the abbey. Should she learn of our association, I absolutely would be. Thornbrook is my home. I will not risk it.”
Strangely enough, this last statement seems to weaken whatever barrier exists between us. It lessens the intensity rolling off his shoulders, the stiffness of his posture. It quiets him momentarily.
“Did you know that time passes differently in Under?” I ask.
He ambles to the window, plucks the sprig of dried lavender from the sill and twirls it between his fingers. Sunlight marks a pale bloom across his cheekbone. It smooths the patchy quality to his tanned skin. “I was aware,” he remarks. “Under decides what length of time passes below, whether it is slower or faster compared to aboveground. But I did not take it into consideration. I am used to working alone.”
Yet I told him how important it was to return to Thornbrook before dawn. What is the truth—these words, or his actions?
“You promised I would be back in a timely manner.”
He sighs, as though this conversation is an inconvenience, and returns the lavender to its spot on the sill. “What can I say? I lost track of time. What is a few more hours, really?” This next pause is decidedly more bitter. “Even if I wanted to leave, I could not have in that moment. Pierus called for me, and the power he exerts over my name dictates that I must submit. If he demands I sit submerged in a river for seven hours, unclothed, then I am helpless to resist. The closer in proximity I am to him, the stronger the compulsion to obey. I am, in all ways, his puppet.”
I cannot quite hide my distaste. It sounds like an excuse to me. “Maybe it didn’t matter to you, but it mattered to me.” Then, quieter: “You lack much care, Bringer of Spring, when it comes to thought for others.”
A silence descends. He appears as though he wishes to speak, yet remains oddly mute, his posture hunched. Very well. I will waste no more breath on someone so lacking in humility. “You have overstayed your welcome,” I inform him, though he was never welcome to begin with. “I insist you leave at once.”
“There are things I wish to say to you, Brielle. I had hoped you would at least allow me that opportunity.”
Enough of these games. If Zephyrus will not leave, then I will.
I’m nearly to the door when he catches my shoulder and unknowingly places pressure on my bruising. A cry of pain cracks out of me as I recoil.
