With effort, I force my fingers to loosen around the scissors. Stupid. As if I have the courage to use a weapon against him. “Right n-n-now, I’m gathering the ingredients for Goldenrod. I’m nearly done extracting the s-sap from oleander. Once that is complete, I’ll grind peppercorn and two roots from the b-bashling sedge.”
He approaches the worktable. The air wavers around him, but it is softer, this emotion, his winds humming not with impatience, but intrigue. I suppose I never realized how unusual my skillset is. Lady Clarisse frequently reminded me that everyone and everything is expendable, including me.
“This bashling sedge.” He points. “What is its purpose?”
Not a test. Not a means to put me in my place—I think. “It paralyzes one’s n-nervous system.”
“Paralysis?” He considers me. “That could come in handy. You are quite certain you cannot complete the poisons sooner?” he asks, angling toward me.
“Quite,” I clip out. He stands so close I’m forced to tilt back my head to meet his enshrouded gaze. When I shift slightly to the right, I catch the pale crescent of a cheekbone emerging from the shadows of his hood.
“Why do you n-need these poisons anyway?” I ask him. And why so urgently? “You’re a god. Why not kill whoever has w-wronged you with your god-touched blade?” Though it goes against my every instinct, I turn my back on the East Wind and return to extracting the oleander sap. The curve of my nape tingles from the weight of his stare. “Or have you misplaced it? Is that why you’re r-r-resorting to poisons?” I prod with a nonchalance I do not feel.
I am not expecting him to respond. Less than a day I have spent in this deity’s company, yet I have already pinned him as closed and cold. But the East Wind surprises me by saying, “Do not worry yourself about my ax. It is well hidden under layers of enchantments.”
So the weapon is somewhere in the manor. Where might the divine hide their beloved weapons? Surely not under their mattresses?
“As for the poisons,” he continues, “it is not just one god I wish to kill. It is twelve of them.”
My hands still. No, I did not misunderstand. The clarity of his words was a sharp-edged blade.
Setting down the paring knife, I turn to face him. “You seek to kill y-y-your own kind?”
Except… I frown at him. What am I missing? Gods are eternal. It is they who dictate life’s currents, whether rainfall or drought, a bountiful catch, an abundant hunt. They cannot be killed by something as insignificant as a collection of chopped buds and crushed roots.
“I do,” he says with no hint of remorse. “And you will help me do so.” Without a farewell, he heads for the flooded corridor.
I blink at his retreating back in indecision. Beyond the garden walls, there is the overwhelming roar of rupturing waves. “Wait!”
He halts, an ear cocked over his shoulder.
“How am I s-supposed to get back to my room?”
“Use the boat,” he rasps tonelessly.
“But—”
He’s gone.
A brown flutter cuts across the space. I track the sparrow, watching in longing as it plucks a blade of grass from the tangled growth and returns to its nest. My grip on the knife coils. Tight, tighter, white-knuckled, fingers crushing the wooden hilt. Every second that passes is a second closer to Lady Clarisse selling the estate. This god thinks he can demand things of me? It is time to work. Time to return to St. Laurent.
Slamming the knife against the table, I stride for the hole in the wall. Utilizing the cracks between the stones, I heft myself higher—shredded back be damned—grappling for any nook or ledge. My fingers slip across small pebbles, then grab hold.
When at last I reach the top, I peer down into a walled courtyard below. Three large birds with ink-tipped wings sit on tall, wooden perches. It is then I notice the colored rings circling their slender legs: courier birds.
Lady Clarisse will be hearing from me, and soon.
7
SUNLIGHT SLAPS ME AWAKE. I lurch upright, wincing as my torso flares in agony. I press a hand to my chest, atop my bruised sternum, and gradually, the world takes shape. A mattress, soft beneath me. My clothes from yesterday, still worn.
The previous afternoon returns to me in fragments. It took all my courage to board that boat in the garden so I could return to the lone tower with its singular window. There, I collapsed, exhausted beyond measure. I wished to forget the day and its preceding night.
But the morning is bright, and this is no fantasy. Beyond the open window, the rupture of water on rock explodes skyward, the churning storm just beyond. No creak of old wood, no hiss of steam over the hearth, no aroma of diced herbs.
Hunger coils in my stomach as I climb from bed. Judging by the sun’s position, it is quite late. Her ladyship required that I begin work at dawn—sometimes earlier, and my duties always kept me busy well into the evening. Teas to brew, plants to harvest. I am half expecting her to barge into the room, lash in hand, for my tardiness.
It is then I notice a small jar of salve resting on the bedside table. No note. The manor must have left it for me.
