A chill courses through me, though the air itself is pleasantly warm. In the distance, the fires have died. Night sounds, hushed and drowsy, blanket the village. As suddenly as it manifested, the gathering has reached an end.
My attention shifts to where the shadows are thickest. Nothing stirs. The air holds itself in suspension. I am alone. And yet, I am certain someone or something watches me.
Climbing to my feet, I brush off my grass-stained dress, limbs loose and mouth bruised. My glove-clad fingertips press softly into my lower lip, tender to the touch. I remember the drag of the West Wind’s tongue, the abrasiveness of his unshaven cheeks. His taste lingers, a honeysuckle sweetness.
I touched a man. Kissed him. Ran my fingers across his muscled torso. It was a reckless act, driven by emotion rather than logic, too rash for the life of a novitiate. And if it ever comes to light, I will lose—everything.
Brielle.
I whirl around. No sign of whoever called my name. “Hello?”
Where are you, Brielle?
The call seethes through the forest undergrowth, rough with pain. My stomach takes a sharp dive. It sounds like Zephyrus, though he knows better than to speak my name aloud.
Grabbing the hem of my skirt, I race across the clearing, plunging into the wood, the trees closing at my back.
A few paces ahead, the grassy path appears, brown with age. By the time I reach the trail’s end, my breath draws short and I stand before the entrance to a cave. My name drifts from its cold, black depths.
Nervous energy jitters beneath my skin. It tells meno. It reminds me of all I have to lose. But if Zephyrus is in need, who will help him, if not me?
I duck into the low-ceilinged tunnel. Keeping my hand to the cool, damp stone, I follow the warren as it descends beneath the earth. Thankfully, Zephyrus’ roselight keeps the gloom at bay.
When the tunnel empties into a large, moonlit chamber, my footsteps falter. I have been here before. A field of pink flowers embraced by silver-painted walls.
I quickly scan the vacant chamber. “Zephyrus?”
“He is not here, young novitiate.”
My attention snaps upward, and I lurch back with a frightened cry.
The Orchid King clings to the ceiling with his grub-like roots, those horrible, open-mouthed buds oozing a clear liquid. He hangs suspended in the vines, the gleaming white skin of his upper torso rippling with strength as he twists around, evaluating me as though I am a particularly compelling enigma. A messy silver braid snakes over the curve of one muscled shoulder.
“Do not be frightened,” he soothes. “You are safe here.”
“You will not punish me?” One of the carnivorous blossoms erupting from his shoulder snaps its mouth shut. “I’m forbidden to enter Under except on the tithe.”
The Orchid King finds amusement in my concern. His eyes cut like shards of ice. “I do not care to punish you, my dear. My relationship with Mother Mabel takes precedent. I do not wish to taint it by penalizing one of her charges.”
I do not trust his word, though his reasoning makes sense. “Where is Zephyrus,” I say once my pulse slows, “and why was I called here?”
The Orchid King cants his head in puzzlement. “You tell me. You arrived—uninvited—into my home. There must be a reason for it.”
“A voice called my name,” I say with far more calmness than I feel. “I followed it.”
“Whose voice?”
“Zephyrus’.”
A vine drops to the ground with a slap, followed by a second, third, and fourth. Grunting, the Orchid King lowers himself from the ceiling, the span of his roots extending from wall to wall. I shuffle backward to put distance between us.
“How curious,” Pierus replies, and the tip of a curved, blackened nail dimples his chin. “Have you considered whether the voice was your inner self nudging you in this direction?”
“Why would my mind lead me here?” I swore after witnessing Zephyrus’ torturous ritual never to return, but the entrance I came through held no familiarity. This time, there was no waterfall to pass behind.
The Orchid King shifts his bulk through the field of flowering grass, then clambers atop the mound of dirt heaped against the back wall. “Who is to know? The world is full of mysteries.”
He settles in, white roots diving into the soil like hungry worms. Blue eyes placid, he sinks down with a sigh.
