Shea thinks of her mother culling weeds in the garden, pointing out the mountain whorls mixed in among the wildflowers:Pay attention, Mouse. It’s important not to mix up the petals.
“Skullcap.”
“Like I told you,” Egor says, “you’re important to Oliver, which makes you important to me.”
The air snuffs out, and the foyer—all the drab olive green of it—comes rushing toward her.
When she hits the floor, she hits head first.
This is a memory, or else a dream—the Thorley house in deep summer, in the middle of a heat wave. The air is so thick, it snaps against the pavement. Poppy and Camellia are in the hammock out back, feet tangled and eyes on the sky. Laughing themselves sick over a private joke.
Shea isn’t with them. She’s standing in the garage, her bare feet burning, a crown of yellow hawkweed wilting atop her head. She wandered over in search of Howard, the family beagle, and now she’s here—watching Asher work. It’s two days before he leaves for the garrison. For now, he’s home, and things are the same as they always are. He sits on a stool by his bike, a rag over his shoulder and Howard dozing at his feet. His hands are stained with oil. Sweat adheres his T-shirt to his spine. They both know she’s staring.
“Are you really going?”
“Yeah,” he says. It comes out bitter as a rind. “Looks like I am.”
Off in the distance, Camellia lets out a full-bodied cackle. The sound carries in on a stale breeze. Everywhere, everywhere, the air hangs hot and heavy. Shea wants to unzip her skin and crawl clear out of it.
“You don’t have to do what they tell you. You could leave.”
He sets the wrench down with a clatter, startling Howard awake. “And where would I go?”
“The Gravewood.”
She hadn’t meant to say it like that—like a reflex. Like she thinks about it all the time. Running. Leaving. The forest, cool and dark. Horrified, Asher glances quickly around—searching the garage like he’s certain someone might have overheard.
Finally—stiffly—he says, “Don’t joke.”
“It’s not a joke. I mean it.”
“You want me to pledge myself to the devil? How is that any better?”
She’s practiced this, at home in her mirror. At night in her bed. In the mornings, as she brushed her teeth. “Because then I could come with you.”
His expression shifts to one of surprise. “Parker—”
“You promised,” she says quickly. “Remember? You promised we’d leave together.”
“That was years ago. We were kids.”
“So what if it was? Are you saying you didn’t mean it?”
“I did mean it, I just—” He falls silent as Camellia appears, dragging Poppy behind her. They stutter to an abrupt halt at the sight of Shea in the garage.
“You’re not allowed to steal my friends,” Camellia declares, jabbing an accusatory finger at her brother. “Shea isn’t interested in your dirty old bike, anyway. Tell him, Shea.”
Her cheeks heat. “I, uh—”
“We’re going inside to see if there’s ice pops,” Poppy interjects. “Want one?”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Perfect.” Poppy ushers Camellia hurriedly inside.
Alone again, the silence blisters. Asher tugs the rag from his shoulder and falls to cleaning his knuckles, his jaw locked, his stare crawling through her. The air smells of hibiscus. Floral. Tart. She wants to tell him she doesn’t know how to watch another person leave. She wants to say that she hasn’t learned how to say goodbye—that she’s never even been given the chance.
She doesn’t say it. And she hadn’t said goodbye that day, either. The dream is all wrong—she’d gone inside with Camellia and Poppy. She’d sat on the counter and eaten an ice pop, feeding the last few licks of it to Howard. When she’d finally gathered the courage to sneak back outside, Asher had been gone, and so had his bike. It was the last time she saw him.
