Corabeth couldn’t keep the shock from her face when one horrible thought chased after the other. Rooke had already admitted that he killed people. Did he collect their clothes as some kind of sick trophies? Was she wearing the dress of some poor woman who had fallen victim to him?
“I’m not sure where your mind went, but I assure you, it’s nothing gruesome,” Rooke said, seeing her expression. It was obvious from the way he was holding back laughter that he found amusement in scaring Corabeth. “The clothes belonged to my mother.”
“Oh,” Corabeth replied, not sure if that was better or worse.
“Don’t worry. She has been dead for centuries,” Rooke said as if that was any help. “Besides, most of them are entirely unworn. She had too many dresses to go through all of them.”
In that, Corabeth finally found some comfort.
“Good night,” she said and found her way back to her room. But she had found another invitation in his actions, she realized. Rooke had bookmarkedThe Dragon and the Drowned Queenprecisely where they left off.
Twelve
Corabeth
That night in the library marked the beginning of a new kind of tradition for Corabeth and Rooke. Come dark, Corabeth went downstairs where a dinner waited for her—rich and meaty stews, soups, or roasts. Each night, she managed a few mouthfuls more than the previous night. Then she joined Rooke in the library, where she curled up in the armchair and listened while he read to her. It wasn’t something they coordinated. It simply became the new normal.
Nearly a week passed this way, each night spent in each other’s quiet company. It was only in the evenings that Corabeth stirred to life, otherwise spending her time in bed. Occasional headaches still plagued her, but one afternoon, she found herself awake earlier than usual.
She admired the view from her balcony, overlooking the garden that seemed devoid of all life. From above, she made out the intricate shapes that the leafless hedges drew out—a maze leading to the fountain in the middle. Dark roots and vines crawled across the walkways like poisoned veins.
Corabeth rummaged through the wardrobe in her room, chose a new dress—a more opulent one with intricate black lace appliques upon a midnight blue fabric—and wrapped herself in a thick cloak before she found her way outside.
A wide stone staircase led down to a garden where gravelly paths wound between plants that had shed their leaves in preparation for winter.
Dried leaves crunched under Corabeth’s feet and she filled her lungs with the cold air. The wintery breath that lingered was almost sweet. She slowly walked the garden, the paths taking her closer and closer to the center, where she knew an empty and cracked water fountain sat. Surrounding it were four stone benches. These too, the vines had slowly started to devour.
Corabeth sat down on one of them, wanting to spend just a few more minutes somewhere else besides the room she had become to consider her own.
A raven circled the fountain, once, twice, then landed on its edge, facing Corabeth. Its head shifted in sudden, jerky movements as it considered her.
Corabeth thought back to Rooke’s words, how the ravens had indeed been her friends, and smiled a little. She wondered if this raven was one of the birds that came to her back yard when she still had a home, a village.
The bird jumped down from the fountain and hopped closer to her, not once taking its beady eyes away from her. It picked up a dried leaf with its beak, then another and another, creating a little pile that the wind scattered almost immediately. Disappointed, the raven once again turned its gaze expectantly at Corabeth.
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Corabeth said apologetically.
“He wants to play,” said Rooke, startling Corabeth enough to make her whole body jump. Her heart beat against her ribcage hard enough to bruise.
“You need to stop doing that,” Corabeth said, sighing from relief, her hand still pressed to her chest. It wasn’t too long ago that his presence would not have offered her comfort.
“Apologies. I’m used to quietly stalking in the shadows,” Rooke said, and sounded apologetic enough. He walked closer to the fountain where the raven was once again sitting on its edge. Rooke was holding a long stick in his hands.
“This one especially likes you,” Rooke said with a fond smile, motioning towards the bird. The raven flared its wings, fluttering them furiously. A harsh croak escaped its throat.
“Is he upset you told me?” Corabeth asked. She tried to fight the smile that threatened to break across her face.
“Maybe,” Rooke admitted. “If ravens could blush…”
Corabeth realized he was carrying a rake when he began gathering the dried leaves with long, deliberate strokes, piling them into a knee-high heap in no time. The raven watched, excitedly jumping along the edge of the fountain the entire time.
“What are you doing?” Corabeth asked.
“Helping him, of course,” Rooke said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He was asking for your help, but you so rudely refused to lift a finger.”
“I plead ignorance,” Corabeth said and lifted her hands in surrender.
When Rooke, or the raven, or both of them deemed the pile of leaves high enough, Rooke stepped back and the raven took flight with a sharp caw, landing at the top a moment later. The pile sank a little under its weight. Then, with a playful lurch, it tucked one wing and let gravity pull it down, rolling sideways in a flurry of reds, oranges, and browns. It kicked its feet with glee before righting itself with an indignant shake.
