After one more deep breath, Alaric digs his fingers into the flesh and collects a handful of seeds. Red juice drips from his creamy leather gloves and onto the dirt, turning it black. It looks like he recently murdered someone, and I almost point out this “proof” of the blood on his hands. But then images of Besnik’s body sprawled across the banquettable bombard me, and I press my lips firmly back together.
“They’re beautiful.” Alaric gazes down at the shiny seeds, tipping his hands back and forth so they catch the light. “Like tiny jewels.”
It’s the perfect comparison—and makes for a perfect trade. A glimpse of my bagrava for his gemstone triad.
“Help me plant them,” I say, showing Alaric how to press his thumb into the damp soil, drop a seed into the hole, and cover it with the proper amount of dirt.
“Am I doing it right?” Alaric asks as he makes a line of careful thumbprints. “I don’t want to ruin anything.”
I give a haughty flick of my hair. “I’m Tashir’s most powerful master gardener. You couldn’t ruin my work if you tried.”
Alaric chuckles, and the deep, rumbling sound steeps in my belly like warm tea. And the feel of his hands, even through his gloves, as I press my palms to the ground and encourage him to place his hands over mine, makes me gasp.
I scramble to think up an excuse. I’m unused to being touched, unused to being anything but despised on this mountain. I didn’t expect him to actually follow my orders. But a breath passes, then two, and Alaric doesn’t tease me. He simply waits, his hot breath tickling my cheek, making me even more flustered.
This was a terrible idea. Allowing him to watch me grow ordinary herbs was bad enough, and bagrava is a different beast altogether—the way it makes mefeelis different. Every time I try to start the incantations, my tongue feels as thick and slow as a slug.
“Is something wrong?” Alaric glances up from beneath his long lashes. His shimmering gray eyes are uncharacteristically soft—a prism of shifting greens and silvers, like granite polished smooth, rather than raw stone.
“I’m not used to doing this in front of an audience,” I admit.
“Do you want me to leave?” Alaric starts to pull away.
“No,” I say sternly, surprising us both. “I want you to see.”
I need you to trust me.
I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and focus my energy into the ground, blocking out everything but the feel of my fingers in the dirt and the pulse of the newly buried bagrava seeds. They call to me from their soil beds, reaching for me like mewling babes, and I picture my fingers growing downward like roots, branching wider and deeper until my fingernails touch the delicate casing of a seed. With a gentle touch, I peel back the skin and set the purple seedling free. Then I release another, and another, coaxing them toward the surface with my incantations.
As the seedlings rise, I sink into the rhythm of the words and the cadence of the melody, repeating the well-worn notes until, at last, the shoots break ground in a surge of glorious energy. The power is dizzying and euphoric, pouring through me and cycling back into the ground like a fountain, making it impossible to tell if I’m feeding the bagrava or if it’s feeding me.
Alaric sucks in a wondrous breath, but I don’t stop singing. Can’t risk losing my concentration.
I’ve never cultivated bagrava behind glass walls or without the help of a planting partner, and the added strain is taking its toll. Sweat trickles down my face, and my arms begin to tremble. It feels like I’m drilling through rock instead of soil, which I suppose isn’t far from the truth. Just when I fear I’m going to collapse, the plants reach their mature height, and tender leaves unfurl, followed by small balls of fruit that deepen in color until they’re as big as my fist and as rich and dark as wine.
At last, I release the ground and sit back on my haunches, smiling and exhilarated but also panting and exhausted—and, apparently, crying.
Alaric reaches over and gently swipes his fingers cross my cheek.
My hand flies to my face and I scramble back, uncertain if I’m recoiling from his touch or what I’ve done. I betrayed myself and my country by growing bagrava in Vanzador—even if it’s just a means to an end.
“I’m sorry.” Alaric retracts his hand, and his cheeks redden. “I didn’tmean… I got caught up in the moment.” His voice is soft and full of even more wonder than when he watched me grow common herbs. He can’t stop looking from my face to the stalks of perfect bagrava and back again. “That was incredible.”
“More like incredibly stupid,” I deflect with a hoarse laugh. “You’ll probably take this crop straight to dear old Daddy as soon as I’m gone.”
“Itwouldget him off your back,” Alaric points out, “but I won’t tell him yet—not until you’re ready.”
“What if I’m never ready?” I chance a look up and find Alaric gently gliding his fingertips across the top of the bagrava. “Who will you side with then?” I ask, even though we both know the answer.
Alaric clears his throat and changes the subject. “Thank you for sharing this with me. I know how sacred it is to you. There’s something I want to share with you in return.”
“Oh?” I say casually, though on the inside, I’m pulled tighter than bailing twine.
My plan is actually working.
Alaric reaches into his waistcoat pocket and reveals a small silver button that glitters in the intense sunlight.
I immediately recognize it. “That’s the silver button from your memory—the one that came loose from your coat.”
