Veda rolls her eyes. “Must you do that? Soon we’ll be fully civil with each other, and that sounds terrible.”
He laughs because their fight at the school feels like a lifetime ago. “It does. Just awful.”
“I’m glad we agree on something.” Her gaze drops to his arm, not for the first time, lingering on his tattoos, fingers tracing her amulet’seye. When she catches him watching, Hiram draws her closer, dipping his head to kiss her covered shoulder, his hand tracing her shape.
“I’m not having sex with you.”
“Not tonight,” Hiram murmurs. “We’ll get there.” He grins at her sharp inhale. “You brought it up, which means you’re already thinking about it.” Brown eyes widen, lips part in protest, but he gently brings a finger against them before she can speak. “I thought I liked sleeping alone, but maybe I don’t. See? I can admit that. Unlike you, who won’t even admit that you like these ... nightcaps. Or that you sleep better in my bed.”
“Only thing I’ll admit is I hate being cuddled.”
She rolls onto her side, her back to him, but doesn’t protest when he tangles their legs and wraps an arm around her.
“You lie,” he murmurs near her ear. “Terribly.”
“You’re warm,” she mumbles between yawns.
“And your feet are ice.”
Veda doesn’t respond. She’s already asleep, breathing deeply. Hiram chuckles softly, pressing another kiss to her shoulder. Before he knows it, he’s asleep, too.
Twenty-Seven
Dawn brings overcast skies and gray light breaking through the clouds. The lake is calm, the air warm and humid, and a gentle fog lazily rolls in. Hiram is already on the dock, looking on at Peter and Antaris, who sit with their legs crossed, eyes closed. Peter’s palms glow white while Antaris’s slide through an array of colors.
“It’s a lesson in control.” Khadijah joins Veda at the window. “Something we do with the little ones. He has to match Peter’s color, over and over, until it becomes a smooth transition. They’ve been at it for about ten minutes. The first match usually takes fifteen and—”
Antaris’s light flickers a bit before turning white.
Khadijah makes a pleased noise. “Excellent.”
Veda smiles. “Hey, while they’re outside, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
She squints. “Is it about the fact that you haven’t been home indays?”
“A week and three days,” Veda deadpans. “But no, something else.”
She excuses herself to Hiram’s room and returns with her rucksack, pulling out what she found in the forest.
“Foxgloves.” Thanks to magic, despite being picked days ago, they’re perfectly preserved. “The island’s forest was bursting with undisturbed magic. These are likely more potent. I know you and Peter have been looking for a safe alternative that’ll slow my heart to the point of stopping.”
“And you want to tryfoxgloves?” Khadijah asks, aghast. “I found a few options that are better on your system. A dream elixir, a pulse-pause potion, or Heartbeat Hollow’s essence can work and won’t poison you at the same time.”
“None of these will stop my heart completely.”
“Yeah, that’s the point. They’re not intended tokillyou.”
“The research said death will lead it out. The healer at the hospital when Ariadne-as-Everett attacked me said something similar. We have to mimic death, and if this curse was easily fooled, it would have left me after I was attacked.”
Khadijah considers what she’s saying before sighing heavily. “Prepare it, but I think we should be careful and use a potion we know how to control with magic from the outside that has minimal side effects. We can’t manipulate foxgloves. Nature will take its course, and we’ll be forced to use other methods to heal you. We only take the foxglove route if it’s the last option.”
“Okay. Want to help?”
Khadijah does. They find everything they need and put on gloves. Veda carefully places the foxgloves on parchment paper. The desiccation charm works instantly, drying the leaves and flowers before her eyes. Veda picks up the paper and deposits the foxgloves into the mortar and pestle, grinding them by hand until they’re powder. Khadijah keeps the particles from flying away with a stasis charm.
Hiram comes in as she finishes. Hesitant, he asks, “Should I be concerned?”
“We’re processing the foxgloves.”
