I hear nature.
Birds tweet, chirp and sing; rainfall patters on soil and grass and hedges; the breeze is a distant, hollow echo through the grounds.
It is done.
But out of respect, no one speaks a word.
We get to our feet—and walk back to the abbey in the same procession we walked to the pit.
Father leads the way, followed by Mother, then Oliver.
I wander behind them, the cold and the damp chilling me to the bone, like I just now feel it.
My mind snags, as it always does, on the ritual, the closing of the pit, the undeniable magic of it…
And yet, I don’t quite believe.
I’m not alone in that.
Courtney doesn’t believe either.
Among aristos, elites, the crown families of the Videralli, it’s unacceptable to have no faith. It’s not something that’s said.
Can’t just go to Serena and say, ‘Hey, do you think the gods are real or it’s all old-world bullshit?’
The ritual is magic, but who’s to say the magic isn’t caused by our own hands?
Not mine, obviously.
But I would never ask them, my family that climb the steps to the terrace, then walk through the parted doors. I would never ask what Oliver thinks of the gods and the ritual.
I keep my doubts to myself as I follow them into the foyer.
Mother breaks the silence with a tired hum, then throws back her hood. Faint dark circles stain the delicate skin around her eyes.
She lifts a hand to hide a yawn.
I tug the hood off my head—and as it comes over my hair, a dusting of dry dirt rains over my shoulders.
My murmur is a faint curse.
Oliver is much more graceful. His hood draws back without a downpour of dirt, and it settles on the black material draped over his shoulders—but his gaze is lifted to the wall, a frown creasing his face.
I trace his gaze to the committee of servants in the foyer.
Mr and Mrs Younge stand with their backs to the wall—and a nervous-looking Abigail is tucked between them.
My head cocks to the side.
Hands behind her back, she stands like a mouse cornered, her head bowed, a pinch to her mouth. Her cheeks burn hotter than the flames in the foyer’s fireplace.
Father’s strides don’t falter. They are seamless, kicking against the robe, fluttering with purpose as he moves for them.
He swipes back his hood, revealing a stony profile.
Mother is on his heels.
It’s only Oliver and me who hesitate, and we share a puzzled look before we move to join them.
