I had forgotten how warm his hand was, how wide. I had forgotten that it was permanently calloused, whorled softly, like the ridges of tree rings had been imprinted into his flesh. I had forgotten the muscles beneath his palm, the careful grip of his fingers.
Fingers that had untangled the pain of my life and helped me weave it into something good. Something beautiful.
I had forgotten that before my anger at him leaving, I’d been sad. I hadn’t wanted to lose him, even though I knew no one but a tree could hold a dryad’s heart.
“Ready, now?” he asked gently.
I nodded, because there was no turning back. There hadn’t been from the moment he’d showed up today. Or really, from the moment I’d met him.
“I’ll count down from three,” he said. “One...”
—magic crashed like water breaking a dam. The world blurred, becoming a river of color, a shout of voices, songs and shattered whispers skipping across my brain like technicolored barbed wire tumbleweed —
—I gasped, my heart stuttering as my knees went weak—
—and got hit in the face with air so hot and thick, I groaned.
“What happened to two and three?” I wheezed.
“It’s easier when you don’t tense up. Need water?”
What I needed was for the world to stop riding a seesaw.
“No, I’m fine.”
He squeezed my hand once, and I realized I was still holding on to him.
I pulled away and stuck my hand in my pocket, folding the stones against my palm.I studied the watercolor landscape and waited for the nausea to pass.
He’d taken us to a soggy bank covered in tall grass. Moss curtained the branches of cypress trees growing so close together, they blocked out the sky. The brown and green water that flowed between the trees was brushed with ripples of soft silver light.
It smelled of wet wood, moss, and an earthy, almost sulfur scent.
“Where’s the siren?” I asked, slapping at a bug biting my neck.
“This way.” He nodded to where the land met water and started toward it. I followed his lead and couldn’t help but watch him.
No, I couldn’t help butappreciatehim.
There was strength in his body. In the ease with which he moved through the world. Card was built like his oak tree: solid, strong, steady. Patient and protective of those who rested in the shelter he offered.
Maybe I should just ask him why he left. He’d promised to tell me the truth. But the past should stay in the past. Even Fate had told me not to look backward.
Wounds healed. People grew and changed. I’d changed, finding my footing on my own, holding strong against the storms that had washed against my shores. I’d built a life for myself I loved.
Maybe he had too.
“Awful quiet back there, Ricks,” Card said. “Contemplating my demise?”
I slapped at a mosquito on my arm.
“No.” The tall grass pricked my fingertips like serpent tongue needles before bending away in hushing shuffles. “That’s already penciled in on the calendar.”
“Oh?” he asked without turning back. “Want to share the date, so I can made sure I don’t double book the day?”
I shook my head. “You’re a smartass, Cardamom.”
“And you’re just smart. Which is why I am curious about why you said yes to all this: saving me, saving my tree, speaking for me against Fate.”
