My confidence grows as I near the finale, my smile stretching over my lips. Facing forward, I sit in the hoop like a swing with my hands gripping opposite sides. I point my toes, dangle my legs, and secure the hoop beneath my knees. Then, as gracefully as I can, I slide my hands down the lyra and lower myself backward until my head is just a couple feet above the ground. I extend my arms and arch my back, holding the pose while the ring turns. Thankfully, the turning motion feels so similar to being underwater that it hardly makes me dizzy. I’d be in trouble if it did.
Instead of trouble, I find only ease as I bend forward and grasp the hoop again. My muscles burn a little as I begin to lift my legs off the hoop. I straighten them and bend into an upside-downLshape with my legs overhead, my body now beneath the hoop. I maintain the pose for a few seconds and then bend my knees, bringing my feet toward the lyra and underneath it. My arms quiver as I hold my weight, my strength wearing thin. All that’s left is to lower my body down and put my feet on the ground. But as I try to lean back and plant my legs, I find myself stuck.
I look at the hoop and find folds of gold chiffon wrapped around the bottom near my hands.
“Shells,” I curse. I’ll have to find a different way off after I untangle my damn skirt. Breathing deep, I shift my grip, intending to pull myself back up. My shoulders quiver, my biceps scream, my fatigue growing with every second. Then my hands slip from the hoop. I yelp, expecting to feel the ground meet my back, but my skirt is still stuck. Kicking my legs, I reach for the hoop again, only to hear the distinct sound of tearing chiffon.
My skirt rips loose and I scramble to grasp the hoop, to land upright, to do anything but fall on my ass like an idiot. But it’s too late.
And yet, to the ground my ass does not fall.
Instead, a pair of hands brace behind me, slowing my momentum. I grip…something, but it certainly isn’t the lyra. It takes me a moment to understand where I am…and who stands before me. I’m tilted at an angle mid-fall, my arms slung around Dorian’s neck, his hands around my waist. I freeze, not daring to breathe as Dorian’s face is mere inches from mine, his brow furrowed with concern. Then his expression softens and a corner of his mouth quirks.
His voice comes low and quiet for only me to hear. “Didn’t I already meet you like this earlier this morning?”
My heart pounds so rapidly I’m sure he feels it reverberating through my arms, my torso, through every part of me that touches him. Which is…a lot right now.
It only lasts a moment more. Too soon—or not soon enough—he pulls me to standing and rushes back down the dais, leaving me alone. Jeremy’s piano has gone quiet, and I haven’t the slightest notion when he ceased playing. I stare out at the audience, nibbling my lip, and then waves of sound break out before me. At first, all I hear is applause, then I realize half the sound is laughter, bellowing guffaws.
I purse my lips and Sam Sputnik’s flash bulb flares. When my eyes clear, I find Glint McCreedy grinning wide as he stands before me, eyes darting from me to his notebook as he furiously scribbles. It takes all my restraint not to glower at them both. My gaze sweeps over the front pew and lands on Dorian. He still wears the same crooked smile I saw a moment ago up close, and it makes him seem so different. So much like the version of him I met this morning. The sweaty, smirking, shirtless version—
Crossing my arms, I avert my gaze and stomp down the dais. Not ladylike, I know, but right now I don’t care. I’m too embarrassed for grace right now. Grace can shove its head right up its ass because I clearly don’t have any.
I return to my pew, where Greta and Briony flank me. “That was amazing,” Briony whispers, her smile wide.
“You sure do know how to stir drama, don’t you?” Greta adds.
I ignore them and try not to sulk too hard. Meanwhile, my flesh feels hot where the ghost of Dorian’s touch still burns.
24
Another flower stands in a vase on my dressing table alongside the first, the newest being a purple star-shaped dahlia. I was shocked when my name was called as soon as the Blessing Ceremony began, and even more so when I noted the dahlia’s color as it was delivered to my shaking hands. Tonight, the flowers belonging to those who would stay were purple. Agnes was the one who received the white. She went home after much sobbing in the hall and consoling by Josie. At that point, I made it my mission to remain firmly in my room so I wouldn’t be expected to say goodbye. It’s not like I know her well at all.
In the wake of these events, I know I should feel nothing but relief, nothing but pride for lasting one more day and making it that much closer to fulfilling my mission. Instead, I feel restless. Agitated. Tossing and turning in bed. It’s nearing midnight and no matter how I try, I can’t seem to find sleep. If only Podaxis were still here, then I’d wake him up and have someone to talk to. But he’s already gone back to his own quarters instead of staying with me. Independent little bastard. It’s good for him, I’m sure, to become less attached to me. Fungus sprites are familial creatures and they thrive off close relationships. For so long, I’ve been that relationship. But now…
I remember seeing him glow around Nadia this morning, and that strange blend of joy and sorrow fills my chest. My friend is preparing to forge a new bond, one I couldn’t be happier about. Still, it creates a sense of longing in my heart. An empty void. A wish that—someday—I might find that too. Someone I’m willing to grow for. To love. To be honest with.
Dorian’s face flashes before my mind’s eye, that secret smirk playing over his lips.Didn’t I already meet you like this earlier this morning?
I bolt upright in bed. Why didhecome to mind when I was pondering about…about…I can’t even finish the thought. Dorian Ariko is not someone to swoon over. I don’t care how glistening his stupid muscles are or how strong his hands are. He’s a fae-killing monster, one I’ve been sent to put down. I can’t…I can’t think of him any other way.
But when I remember the way he held me after I fell from the lyra, the way my skin heated beneath his hands, the way my heart raced…
No. None of that. Dorian is a brother of Saint Lazaro, a church that fought against the fae in a bloody rebellion. One he defended when not even his own priest would. He killed a fae when he was just a boy. He’s the son of a violent criminal.
I think back to this morning when I found him practicing in the training room. My mind had been wrapped around bare skin and impressive muscles when I really should have seen what was truly before me. He was practicingfighting. Boxing. The same sport his father was executed for after forcing captive fae into deadly matches. What was it Nimue said? That it was believed Dorian had been training to fight when he murdered the fae—the one he claimed was killed in self-defense?
That should be evidence enough to see him as a brutal killer. What is wrong with me? Perhaps pretending to try and win his heart is getting to me, making me confused over what’s real and what’s not.
I shake my head with frustration and shove back the covers, then I stomp over to my wardrobe and put on the first clothes I see. A skirt. A blouse. I wish I’d brought my cap and trousers, but these items will have to do. All I know is I need air. The sound of waves. The peace of Cape Vega.
Once dressed, I open my door to the quiet, empty hall. There are no sounds in the women’s wing, no evidence that anyone else but me is afflicted with the irritating inability to find slumber. Then, taking each hall and turn one at a time, I make my way to the courtyard garden. I stand just inside the doorway and glance out at the dark shrubs, flower bushes, and trees, seeking signs of life. My eyes roam the walls, looking for open curtains, lights, and peering eyes. But there’s nothing. Only the light of the moon overhead. On silent feet, I creep through the door and across the garden path—then halt.
At the other side of the garden, there’s movement. A shadow amongst shadows. I duck down next to a hedge and watch as the figure strolls from one door to another at the far end—my very destination. The figure’s stride is quick and smooth. They’re dressed not in any of the brotherhood’s pristine uniforms but down to simple trousers and shirtsleeves. And when they glance back the way they came, moonlight catches on familiar features. Ones I’ve seen up close now.
A strong nose. Soft lips. Serious expression.
I frown as Dorian slips through the doorway that leads to the alleyway exit. Suspicion crawls up my spine, sending all intentions of going to Cape Vega away. Now my only thoughts are to follow Dorian, see where he’s off to. I know it could be nothing. He could be in need of fresh air like I am. But Dorian is a wanted fugitive. His terms of sanctuary keep him safe within the confines of the church’s grounds. Wherever he’s going, it’s not as a brother of Saint Lazaro, as evidenced by his casual clothing. Whatever he’s about to do, it’s secret.
