I shy from his gaze. “It’s the reason I lost my mother. The spring of my eleventh year, the weather was particularly harsh. Sometimes it hailed. There were long spells of drought, which killed the crops.”
My eyes close as those weary, hard-edged memories wrench free.
“The storm was sudden. Clear skies, then the strongest winds you could imagine. It splintered trees, turned entire structures to rubble. Our home was destroyed. My mother and I fled deeper into Carterhaugh.” A few heartbeats pass before I’m able to continue. “She took me to the mountain’s base. An old tree had rotted through, and she told me to hide inside its trunk, told me I would be safe there while she searched for help.”
We drift, passing quietly through eternity. I pretend I am elsewhere: a bright, open field, free of the earth’s crushing weight. “For three days, I awaited my mother’s return. It was dark. Raining. I heard the abbey bells marking the hour. On the evening of the third day, she returned, but I did not know that things had changed.” Or that it was the last time I would ever see her.
Zephyrus has stopped propelling the boat. By the Father, I swore I would never return down this road. My mother’s behavior had deteriorated, lapsing into the erratic, the far-fetched, the reckless, all motivation rooted in paranoia. She could not yank me out of that tree fast enough, hauling me toward the pealing bells in the distance, Thornbrook’s white spires.
“I do not fear the dark because there is no light,” I tell Zephyrus. “I fear the dark because of what it means to me: solitude.”
And that is the most I have ever spoken of this weakness—to anyone.
The tips of his fingers brush the top of my forearm. “Give me your hand.”
Once I loosen my grip, he places something in my palm. Round, light, delicate as a flower petal. I squeeze it in curiosity. It has no give. “What is this?”
“Tap the side.”
A faint ring echoes, and I blink against a sudden rosy light. “Oh.” How lovely. And familiar. I’m positive he showed me this object prior to entering the Orchid King’s lair.
“It’s called a roselight.” His face, caught within the disk of illumination, softens. I frown, peering closer at him. For a moment, I could have sworn his features had altered. “Once Under’s roses reach maturity, their petals are harvested into a substance of eternal light.”
“It’s beautiful.” I lift the object higher, let the brightness devour the gray as the walls open up and the River Mur empties into a vast underground lake. Holding its heartbeat in my hand, the darkness recedes, and I calm. This roselight, yet another unsolved mystery surrounding our immortal guide. There is much I do not know about the West Wind.
“You mentioned before you favor the bow,” I say. “But I have never seen you carry one.”
“Ah.” Lowering the pole across the length of the boat, he crouches next to me, Harper at his back. “My bow is long gone, unfortunately. I gifted it to my elder brother’s wife.”
This statement is made of pieces, and I mentally examine each one. If he believes people are inherently selfish and goodwill is naught but smoke, what was his motive? There, I think, is a story yet to be told.
“Wren is a gifted archer,” he continues. “I know she will care for the weapon. But I regret the manner in which I gifted it to her. As such, I am barred from Boreas’ realm forevermore.”
“Why?”
Zephyrus taps a finger against his leg. Tension climbs, cresting to cloud his eyes with what I believe is regret or grief, perhaps both.“Because I made poor choices. Because I was selfish. Because I did not learn.”
It tells me nothing. I want to know. Imustknow. Again, I demand, “Why?”
“Let me ask you something. Do you ever wonder why some people have all the luck?”
“All the time,” I reply truthfully.
“Doesn’t matter what they do. The world unfolds before them, shaping itself into the most pristine path. Others may try to do what is right, but their attempts are twisted, impure. Any progress is countered by another obstacle.” There is a pause. “My brother is a good man. He’s made mistakes, but haven’t we all?” His throat bobs, and he runs a hand along his jaw, the hiss of skin on stubble loud in the dark. “He’s moved forward and built a beautiful life for himself. He deserves it. Me? I question whether anyone could love someone with a past like mine. Someone like me.”
It is perhaps the saddest thing I’ve ever heard, and yet I understand to a frightening degree what Zephyrus feels—the inadequacy.
“Cold?” he murmurs.
Despite his smaller stature, his hands swamp mine. They sit like wheaten gold against my slim brown gloves, flushed pink by the roselight.
Though I have not answered his question, he lifts my hands to his mouth to blow on my fingers. Even through the leather, his hot breath engulfs my icy skin.
Our eyes lock across the shroud inundating the underground lake. There is a thickness to the air that wasn’t present a moment ago. Another exhalation streams across my palms, and the sting begins to thaw into a pleasant tingle.
Zephyrus lowers my hands. “Better?”
My voice has fled. I can only nod. And I have officially been staring for too long.
