There’s a definitive smile to his voice.I’m not pulling a Nonna.
Since Morrgot’s being exceptionally forthcoming, I ask,Now that we’ve made up, why don’t you tell me what Beyockeen means?
Made up? Were we fighting?
Even though I’ve tried to keep up my pace, I’m lagging.I was mad at you.
You’re often mad at me.
Stop deflecting.
We’ve arrived.
Although the flagstones transform to moss, his answer,again, feels like an avoidance.
But why?
Is his pet name that awful?
Sixty-Three
Jade stems shoot skyward, bursting into clouds of foliage strung up with faerie lights that drip like dewdrops, lending the grove a mesmerizing glow.
I can picture Mamma standing where I stand now, gazing at the lush greenery that seems impervious to the arid sands of Selvati. I wouldn’t be surprised if faeries erected an invisible shield around the pure-blood estates like they built clouds around Monteluce.
Don’t touch anything in this garden.Morrgot barely flaps his wings as he soars over my head.
Why? Will it set off a magical alarm?
Water ripples in shallow ponds upon which float lilies that glow like miniature moons and lianas, dotted with blood-red flowers, strain around tropical trees that shoot up higher than the bamboos ringing the grove.
The deeper we penetrate, the thicker and broader the trunks become. One tree is so titanic, its base has been hollowed into a passageway. Phosphorescent plants dapple its belly like faraway galaxies. Galaxies that move. When one unspools to touch me, Morrgot launches himself straight for it and releases that startling shriek-cry.
The timorous stalk rolls back in on itself.
Why is this grove the most toured place in Tarespagia?
“Because of its biodiversity and luxuriance?”
Because of the hallucinogenic nature of these plants. Most contain toxins that will scramble Fae brains for days. Do you know what happens to non-Fae?
I nibble on my lip as I duck out from beneath the trunk and follow the mossy land.They never recover?
They die.
I suck in a breath.You mean, humans?
No, Fallon. I meanany and allof mixed heritage. The moss they planted in my stream was cultivated here.
I raise my palm and press it against my chest to ease the sudden pressure. I attribute the discomfort to Morrgot’s caveat, but what if . . . what if I’ve been stung? I freeze on the cusp of a bamboo bridge suspended over a shallow gulley filled with tropical flora.
You haven’t been stung.Morrgot’s crow swoops around me, his feathers grazing my bare shoulders, pebbling my chilled skin.I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, Fallon.
Of course not. Delirium or death would thwart his reunion with the rest of his crows and master. When my panic subsides, I shuffle onto the bridge, desperately trying to avoid touching the rope banisters, even though Morrgot insists those are safe.If I die, who will remove the obsidian from your crows?
You won’t die.
My fingers skip along the rope in time with my pulse as the plant tributary sparkles and rattles several meters beneath me.But if I did? Could you still break free?
