Following Zephyrus’ lead, we circle the well, then each toss in an object. I pull a button off my dress. Harper gifts a coin. Zephyrus tears a strip from his cloak hem, the dark green fabric fluttering as it drifts into the cavity.
The ground shudders in response, then stills.
“Lastly, since this is the Well of Past, you must offer it a story from your life.” Zephyrus tosses my companion a warm smile. “Harper?”
“Brielle will go first,” she states, chin angled my way.
I’m too overcome with nerves over the upcoming descent to argue. “When I was seven years old, I accompanied my mother to the market one morning. We lived in a small town, and figs were only in season for a few weeks during autumn.”
This memory, I remember, does not end favorably. It ends in tears, the hoarse screams of the conflicted. And now I question why I chose to speak of it. How long will it take Harper to weaponize this story against me?
“Later that night,” I continue, “my mother accused me of eating the figs she bought, having forgotten she had traded them for a block of soap. When I tried to explain, she grew angry.” My hand lifts to my right cheek.
The West Wind’s pupils narrow to pricks of shade. “Did she hit you?”
Never before had my mother laid a hand on me. Looking back, I think I knew something wasn’t right. The rage. The rapid, often incoherent speech. The exhaustion and mental fog. Business had grown slow in recent years, yet I do not believe that to be the underpinning of her change in behavior. The source of her sickness seemed to originate from within, the slow deterioration of her own mind.
“She apologized a few days later,” I mumble.
A gust of hot air slithers mournfully through the canyon at our backs. Zephyrus’ focus is so acute I turn away. I’d believed that I had buried that memory ages ago, but it remains. I wish I had asked my mother why.I am your daughter, I would have said. It is too late now.
“Harper—your turn.” Zephyrus’ quiet command.
She sucks in a breath through her nose, then peers into the well. “There’s not much to say. I grew up in a household where I wanted for nothing. My father was a silk merchant, my mother a florist. My sisters and I attended the most prestigious academy for women’s education. They sought to become great seamstresses. I was on track to become a healer.”
I frown at this new information. Why did Harper dedicate her life to the faith? Generally, a woman seeks the church during times of hardship. Harper’s childhood sounds positively idyllic.
“As a girl, I had always wanted a dog, though my parents would never allow it. I found one abandoned in the old mill the summer I turned twenty. I named her Lily, because of her white coloring.” She folds her hands at her front, voice subdued. “I loved that dog and spent many months secretly nursing her back to health. But there came a day when I found the mill door open, and Lily gone.”
Harper drops her eyes. To my surprise, tears cling to her eyelashes.
“For days I searched, but I could not find her. One morning, however, as I passed by the church, one of the acolytes offered to help me search for her. We combed the woods left and right, and eventually found Lily, caught in a bear trap.”
I gasp, the cincture squeezed tight in my grip. Harper glances at me before continuing. “She was near death. Nothing could be done. But the acolyte was kind to me. She gave Lily a draught to ease her passing. Never had I witnessed such compassion toward a stranger. I believed it was a sign to give my life to the Father. The following month, I joined Thornbrook as a novitiate and haven’t looked back since.”
She sniffs, brushes her hands across her front. Whatever sadness she expressed moments ago has dried up along with her tears. I turn toward Zephyrus expectantly.
He lifts a sly brow. “Yes?”
“You claimed the Well of Past requires a story—from each of us.” When he does not volunteer his thoughts, I wave a hand. “Doesn’t that apply to you as well?”
Another broiling gust screams over the scorched red rock. I am ashamed to discover my attention slipping toward Zephyrus’ mouth, its slight upward curve. As though noticing my ogling, his smile deepens, a flash of white, even teeth.
“My story is one of brotherhood, I suppose.” Zephyrus shifts his weight, as though uncomfortable being the center of attention. “It was on the eve of a great battle, the coup that would bring change to my homeland. I remember standing with my brothers beneath the starry sky. Boreas, our leader. Notus, quiet and withdrawn. Lastly Eurus, who craved blood. We gazed at one another and promised to always stand as one.” There is a pause. “It was the last time my brothers and I were together as a family.”
“How long ago was that?” I ask. Though I do not have siblings, I recognize the longing marking his expression.
He says, in a melancholy tone, “Many centuries ago.”
A beat of silence passes before I hear it—a low drone from the well’s center.
Zephyrus nods. “We’re in. I’ll go first. Brielle will follow. Harper, you bring up the rear.”
“I’m not going last.” She steps forward, regards him with a sultry expression. He meets it openly. “I’ll be in the middle.”
I bite back a retort. Is my sanity worth the argument? Probably not. What do I care if they ogle each other? I don’t.
Zephyrus manages to fit into the bucket with ease, crouching on the balls of his feet as he takes the rope and lowers himself down, curling hair vanishing from sight. A few minutes pass before the empty bucket reappears.
