“Well?” Eva prodded.
A muscle twitched in Arthur’s jaw, and he cut a sharp nod. “That’s all.”
He smelled like sleep, like bedsheets, likeskin. Heat spread all the way up to Eva’s cheeks. She fought the urge to cool them with the backs of her fingers.
“I should have called you, Ev.”
He might as well have cracked an egg on the top of her head. A trickle of feeling rolled down Eva’s spine, spreading out into her limbs until her whole body was overwarm.
“I wasn’t sure you’d pick up the phone,” Arthur said more softly.
Eva barked a laugh, though it didn’t feel funny. “I’m surprised you remember our number.”
Arthur’s posture slumped. “I remember everything.”
It was a match. Eva burned on the sulfurous wick of her fury, desperate to be angry instead of sad, to be sharp, if sharp meant she chose where she bled. She resisted the impulse to grab a fistful of his T-shirt and drag him closer. If he felt her nails wound his skin, would he understand? She was a shard now. A jagged piece of what she’d been before.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your sorry, Arthur.” His name was a barb that dug into her tongue when she spoke it aloud. Arthur’s exhale washed over her, maple and sweet. Eva’s heart beat fast, reminding her that she was not glass. She was flesh. She wouldn’t break for him.
Shecouldn’tbreak for him.
“Tell me the truth,” she demanded. Arthur licked his lips, his thumb rubbing the pads of the other four fingers. She’d forgotten that anxious habit. “Why did you come?”
He could have had the ashes shipped.
They stared at each other, Arthur’s pupils dilating as he took her in. For a moment, Eva thought he’d give her a real answer. But then his face closed off and he looked away. It felt like a flame snuffing out.
Eva watched him walk away, confusion hurting her chest. At the door to the workshop, he paused.
“It doesn’t matter why, Ev.”
Her breath rushed out of her lungs.Bastard.
Eva watched his shadow disappear, her whole body trembling. It took her several minutes to feel ready to return to the house. When she did, her path was marked by a trail of petite chamomile blossoms blooming in her every step. Irritated, she threw open the kitchen door a little too loudly, and found her father hunched over a jar of vivid blue wildflowers.
“Oh. Sorry, Dad.”
Eva’s gaze dropped to the tea he’d chosen. Every petal inside had been collected from her father’s favorite meadow on the mountain. He used to hike to it every summer when she was a child, mapping caches of rare herbs he’d found en route and bringing home screens of drying blooms to bottle and save. Always blue petals—cobalt, sea, and summer sky. They sold every other herb in the Honey Shoppe, except this one.
Eva couldn’t remember the last time he’d made that trip.
“Good morning, honeybee.”
Eva’s breath hitched at the childhood endearment. She didn’t feel like his honeybee right now. That girl thought nothing bad would ever touch her golden little world. She was kind, not cruel and vindictive, as Eva had just been. She was gentle, and Eva didn’t feel gentle anymore.
She felt like a knife.
Crossing to where Dad stood, Eva wrapped her arms around his waist, careful not to irritate the skin around the sapling’s trunk. It was selfish to touch him when doing so put him more at risk. Eva’s gift could hurt her father.
But she needed him today.
“My girl.” Dad held her tight against him. “What’s wrong?”
So many answers swirled to the tip of her tongue. So much had gone wrong in such a short time.
Dad rubbed a circle over her spine. “Is it Arthur?”
