But the memories layered and mixed. The Rooted woman's desperate hands became the marrow vines' patient exploration. The moss's absorbed deaths became predictions of her own. She could still feel them burrowing, seeking, hungry for what lay beneath.
The door opened without warning.
Eliam stalked over the threshold, still dressed in the same sleep pants from earlier, his expression caught between irritation and something harder to name. His pale hair fell loose around his shoulders, and in the moonlight, he looked less like a king and more like the dangerous thing he truly was.
"Your distress is loud," he said flatly. "The entire east wing can feel it through the root systems."
Heat flooded her face. "I'm sorry."
"Are you?" He stepped inside, closing the door with deliberate care. "Because it seems you're actively feeding the memories rather than dismissing them."
"I don't know how todismissthem." The words came out smaller than intended. "They're not mine but they feel—"
"Real. Yes." He moved closer, each step measured. "The moss is an excellent record keeper. Unfortunately, it doesn't discriminate between owner and observer."
Another wave of borrowed memory crashed over her, this time a young man feeling his bones crack as roots grew through them. She curled forward, arms wrapped around her middle, trying not to be sick.
The bed dipped as Eliam sat on its edge. Not close enough to touch, but his presence changed the air in the room.
"Show me," he commanded.
She lifted her head to find him watching her with those inhuman eyes. "Show you what?"
"The patterns. The moss may have left residue in the binding."
Reluctantly, she extended her arm. The sleeve of her nightgown was loose enough to push up, revealing the delicate thorn patterns that traced from wrist to elbow. In the moonlight, they looked almost beautiful: dark green lines that could have been elaborate tattoos if not for the way they shifted slightly with each beat of her heart.
His fingers were careful as they traced one of the lines. Where he touched, the burning sensation eased, replaced by cool relief that made her exhale shakily.
"Here," he murmured, pressing his thumb against a spot near her elbow where several patterns converged. "The moss left traces. Sloppy of me not to check."
The relief spread as he worked, his touch clinical but thorough. The borrowed memories began to fade, becoming distant rather than immediate. She could still sense them, but they no longer crashed over her in waves.
"Better?" he asked, though he didn't wait for an answer before moving to examine her throat.
His fingers were gentle against the marks there, tracing each pattern with focused attention. This close, she was overwhelmed by the scent of him, of forest floors after rain, growing things, of danger wrapped in beauty. The warmth in her chest stirred, reaching toward him with recognition that made her breath catch.
His eyes flicked to hers, a frown creasing his brow. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Whatever you're doing. The patterns are responding incorrectly."
She looked down to see gold threading through the green lines, following the path of his touch. Where the colors met, the patterns seemed to pulse with contentment rather than pain.
"I'm not doing anything," she said.
"Aren't you?" But he didn't pull away. His fingers continued their exploration, finding each place where moss memory had tangled with his marks. "The dreams will fade. The moss can only hold borrowed memory for so long outside its source."
"How long?"
"Days. Maybe a week." He paused at a particularly sensitive spot where her collar met her shoulder. "Unless you're foolish enough to seek them out."
"Why would I—" Another memory fragment intruded, this one of the Rooted woman before her transformation, begging for mercy. Briar shuddered.
"Breathe," Eliam said, and she realized she'd stopped. His hand moved to cup the back of her neck, thumb pressing against the base of her skull. "The memories are worse when you fight them. Let them pass through."
"Easy for you to say." But she tried to follow his advice, breathing through the phantom sensations instead of tensing against them. It helped, marginally.
