Zephyrus drops his hand, startled.
A hiss punches past my clenched teeth. The throb migrates up my spine, digging deep into muscle, bone. I shuffle sideways to put more distance between us. His gaze drops to where my hand curves around my shoulder, sheltering it from his touch.
“You are injured?” Too quiet.
I do not respond.
He steps forward.
I step back.
Zephyrus’ eyes darken, and a discomfiting thrum of energy courses through me. He smiles so readily and weaves such pretty lies, but something lurks beneath that facade, and it is not as mild as I had assumed.
“What happened?” he demands.
“That’s my business,” I state. He will take nothing more from me. I will not give him the satisfaction.
A rough hand drags through his curls with leashed patience. He tucks his tongue into his cheek, the look of a man considering a situation from all angles, examining responses and discarding them, all but one. “Be that as it may,” he continues with willful obstinacy, “I have a responsibility to you. A debt.”
The West Wind will never be satisfied. He will tear into flesh until he hits bone. “You have no such thing. Let me be clear. I aided you in your time of need, and you repaid that debt. We have no further business with each other.”
He eyes me doubtfully. “But was the debt repaid?” Seeing my confusion, he elaborates, “You’re saying you gained the knowledge you sought? If I recall, you did not appear particularly enthused after your meeting with Willow. Why, you didn’t mention it at all.”
I hate how I begin to cave despite my intentions. He knows so much more than me. Thus, he must know best.
“You want to know what happened?” I manage, voice hoarse with shame. “By the time I returned to the abbey, an entireweekhad passed.” My throat strains as the tears well. “Everyone thought I was dead!”
His expression has frozen into something borderline inhuman. Zephyrus is not mortal, I remind myself. He is something far beyond my comprehension.
“You were punished because you did not confess where you had been. Is that it?”
“I told you I was forbidden to enter Under.” A single tear tracks down my cheek. I wipe it away.
A gust snaps at the shutters, startling me.
“What punishment did you receive?” Zephyrus demands.
“It doesn’t matter.” The penalty was deserved. I strayed. I trusted the wrong person, someone blind to my discomfort. I am beginning to think the Orchid King was correct in his assessment of Zephyrus.
“Brielle.” And now his voice mollifies, stretching slow and languorous as a cat. “I cannot help you unless you tell me what happened.” His mouth tugs, his eyes sparkling. It would be easy to fall into them.
Yet I take another step back. “I did not ask for your help, and I do not want it.”
He hesitates, as if coming to a decision. Then his shoulders slump, and he finally takes his leave via the open window, using the dense ferns clambering up the tower for footholds. “You are right,” he says, pausing in his descent. “I should have kept track of the passing time, but there was much on my mind. If I could explain—”
“You have taught me a valuable lesson, Zephyrus.” Leaning forward, I grip the windowsill, fingers digging into the warped timber. “Never trust a man.”
I slam the shutters in his face.
Later that evening, I sit in bed, journal propped open on my lap. Since Zephyrus’ departure, I’ve struggled to pacify the creature pacing inside my chest. Rather than retreating to the forge, I pick up my quill, my jar of charcoal ink, and scratch at the parchment until the tightness within me eases, my mind quieting. I reflect on Zephyrus’unexpected arrival, the shock and fury and dismay I’d felt. I parse out the moments of shame. I list all that I wished I’d said to him but did not. I speak to the paper as I would to a dear friend, though I have none.
I write until my hand cramps, until my eyes sting with fatigue and the words blur, until ink smears the parchment, until my spine cracks from hunching over the journal. But alas, I still do not understand why this series of events occurred, why I have received this misfortune. Poised at the bottom of the page, my quill hovers, awaiting direction.
I write,Who am I to question the Father’s plan?and leave it at that.
A sound startles me awake.
It is brief—too brief to know what, exactly, woke me. My room does not harbor its usual amber glow. The candle I light nightly has burned to its wick, and the far wall reflects only the brightness of moonlight on white plaster. The shutters, when I prepared for bed, were closed. They currently hang open, a frame for the forested hills, the darkness of Carterhaugh in slumber.
