Admittedly, it is more freedom than I had in St. Laurent. Her ladyship only permitted me to venture into town once a week. “Where will you be wh-while I’m working?”
“I have some loose ends to tie up,” he says vaguely. “I will be gone most days. If you need something, the manor will see to it. But I want to reiterate that there can be no delay, understood? I will need these poisons as soon as possible, ahead of my return to the City of Gods.”
My fingers tighten, bunching the fabric of my dress. City of Gods? But I do not ask. It is unlikely he would respond anyway. “Understood,” I whisper, head bowed.
He pivots, striding back down the corridor from which he emerged. I watch him go, until there is no distinction between darkness and god.
Five oleander cuttings, pale pink blooms crowning long green stalks, line the weather-beaten worktable. It has been shoved against a wall carpeted so thickly in moss, I cannot see the stone beneath. Overhead, the stained glass has dulled. Its fiery reds grow clouded, its mustard hues reduced. The air smells of a storm.
Carefully, I snip away the leaves to collect the chalky sap oozing from the stems, taking care to avoid agitating my wounds. My stomach growls. I ignore it. After the East Wind’s departure, I took it upon myself to explore the garden—mostly searching for a way out. It was more expansive than I first assumed, containing all manner of vegetables and herbs, common and rare, cultivated in realms distant andnear. A smaller, secondary antechamber housed a variety of grain, including wheat, rye, and corn. There was even a greenhouse fashioned from panes of glass. Inside, three rare orchids tilted their painted faces against the steaming air. Two I recognized. The third I did not.
I snip another leaf, catching the dripping sap in a round jar. Unfortunately, my only exit seems to be the boat. The other two existing passages have been bricked up for reasons unknown.
In the hours that follow, I collect enough sap to fill the entire jar, perhaps three cups’ worth. I slice and crush and blend until my hands cramp, my half-frozen fingers tipped blue. The changing seasons are born from the Mother of Earth, who demands the land fall dormant in order to bring about rebirth. Many claim the goddess is fickle, delaying or expediting growth depending on her moods, but I have never believed that. So long as I extend gratitude for each plant harvested, I trust that she will provide.
In truth, I enjoy the solitude. It is my only opportunity to fully relax. Though I have been stolen from my home, I cannot deny the slow rhythm of my heart in her ladyship’s absence. There is no threat amongst the moss and weeds. They demand nothing of me.
A sharp clatter startles me. I jerk around, scanning the area. On a nearby work bench, a bowl of stew has appeared, along with a hearty slice of bread. The manor. It must have sensed my hunger.
I pick my way toward the hot meal curiously. No sign of the East Wind. He made his point earlier—why would he seek to harm me when he requires my services? And Iamhungry.
The stew is filling, seasoned with rosemary and thyme. Chunks of meat melt in my mouth, and I eagerly munch through a few softened potatoes before dragging the bread through the rich broth. It warms me from fingertips to toes, and I consume the entire bowl before setting it down with a gratified “Thank you.”
The bowl vanishes. A glass of water appears in its place. I take a tentative sip before draining it. Moments later it, too, fades. I feel a swell of gratitude toward this strange, enchanted place. It cares for me, which is something I have rarely encountered over the last decade.
“Do you happen to know a way out of here?” I ask the manor.
The small stream splashes once, twice, thrice. A shallow wave curls toward the garden’s entrance, as if gesturing me to follow. I’m led to the flooded corridor, where the boat dips with the current.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Is there another way that doesn’t involve water?”
A few leaves stir around my ankles. They sweep behind me, coaxing my attention back to one of the walls in the main chamber. The leaves scatter upward.
“I can’t go through,” I explain. “The passage is blocked off.”
The leaves stir again.
I shake my head in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.” My attention flicks upward, and I pause. The manor isn’t directing me to the wall. It’s directing me to the small opening in the upper corner, wide enough that I may be able to squeeze through.
I stare at the hole in frustration. Too far to reach. Even if I were able to slip through the opening, where would I go? I remain trapped on this island with no means of escape.
A soft scuff of sound sends me darting back to the worktable. I stand with my back to the wall, scissors clenched in hand: a pitiful weapon.
Eurus emerges from the open corridor, wings tucked against his back, long, faded cloak snapping around his legs. Worn, calf-high boots of black leather thud against the uneven stone, and I bite the inside of my cheek. The sting grounds me.
The East Wind stops a stone’s throw away. “Well?”
I blink in stupefaction. “Well wh-what?”
“Are you done?”
I decide that I do not like this immortal. Not only did he abduct me and force me into his employment, he seems like someone who finds little pleasure in the world.
“I told y-you,” I reply, “some of the poisons will require many weeks. It has only been a f-few hours.”
A crude wind tugs at my braid. He is displeased by my response. I need not witness his expression to know that. But what, specifically,displeases him? That I have the gall to challenge him? I retreat a step, gaze wary.
But he only grunts and says, “Tell me of your progress.”
