Part Three
The Black Swan
Seven stars in the still water,
And seven in the sky;
Seven sins on the King’s daughter,
Deep in her soul to lie.
—“The Dole of the King’s Daughter” by Oscar Wilde
Chapter Thirty-Six
As I hiked back toward the Gate, I grappled with disconcerting hope.
I hadn’t meant for things to go so far with Irian. Not just physically—I understood how body, mind, and heart did not always desire the same things. But I hadn’t expected the way our fragile emotions had begun to bind us together, delicate as gossamer.
The way his words had transformed from flirtatious banter to naked honesty within a breath as he reassured me instead of punishing me for the sudden wash of emotions that ended our tryst.
The way his scalding touch sought not to take his own pleasure but to learn the rhythms of mine.
The way he’d stopped looking at me like someone he’d lost, and started looking at me like someone he’d found.
We’d gotten too close. And yet… not close enough.
When you give me your heart, colleen, I want all of it. I want all of you.
Anticipation fluttered honeysuckle against my spine. And I allowed myself to wonder what it would be like tostay.
Here. In Tír na nÓg.
Withhim. With what time he had left.
And withmyself. With all the parts of myself I’d spent my life hating. I’d been raised to loathe my wicked heart and wild eyes, my warped magic, which turned hedgehogs to dirt and nursemaids to trees. To believe that the only love I deserved was half-hearted and wholly conditional—predicated on the rejection of every characteristic that made me unique.
But what if all that had been a betrayal—a betrayal enacted upon me by all the people who said they loved me, but merely wanted to keep me docile, obedient, dutiful?
For nearly thirteen years, I had shunned and despised the realm that had spawned me. Despised my blood—my very body. Myself. And for the first time in my life, I wondered what it might be like to step inside the parts of myself I did not understand, and explore them for exactly what they were.
Arching oaks and heaving earth… moss embroidered over cracked stones. Shadows and light. Sharpness and softness. Living and dying.
Movement beside the bridge caught my eye.
It wasn’t Rogan. It was Eala. And beside her was Chandi.
“Hello, Sister,” said Eala. “We come to make amends. And to give you one last warning.”
I shook my head stupidly, my far-flung thoughts struggling to catch up to her words. “Amends?”
Eala smiled her trademark sister’s smile at me. “Chandika?”
“I’m… so sorry.” Chandi stepped forward. Her amber eyes flicked to mine and then down to the dirt. “I should not have encouraged you to eat those flowers. I knew you were part human—I knew the flowers might steal your will. I hoped—wished—your Folk blood was stronger, so that you might foresee a way to break our geas. But I should not have taken the risk. I understand if you’re angry with me.”
“Iamangry.” But I wasn’t angry only at Chandi. I had a sneaking suspicion it hadn’t been her idea to make me dine onblack starflowers. At least, not wholly. Of the two women standing before me, I knew which of them dictated and which of them obeyed. Eala’s contradictory behavior had shaken my belief in her—I didn’t understand why she would have encouraged me to sleep with Rogan, only to spurn him for the same thing. What had he said?Eala’s love demands I tolerate her fickle games, her schemes and manipulations.I wanted to believe the best of my sister. But the evidence against her had begun to stack.
I slid my eyes from Chandi to the princess, who stood cool and unruffled despite the smothering heat. “No apology from you?”
