“It’s the reason the keep is shrouded in mist,” he says at last. “The reason the stone crumbles and the halls decay. Everything here is dying…” He glances at the rose in my hand. “Everything except this. The garden. It’s the one thing I refuse to let die.”
“I see.” I swallow, unsure what to say. “Well… your gardens are beautiful. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”
That earns me a smile. Damn those dimples.
“I’m glad you enjoy them,” he says. “No one else has in years.” He hesitates, as if weighing something. “Stay as long as you like. I’d welcome the company while I work.” He nods toward a stone bench tucked beneath the tree.
I glance at the bench. Then at the shears in his hand. At the dirt beneath his boots.
“If it’s all the same to you,” I say, “I’d rather help.”
His brow lifts. “Help?”
“Keeping my hands busy calms my mind.” I gesture toward the rosebush he’s working on. “Sitting still isn’t really my strength.”
For a beat, he studies me—measuring, considering. Then he huffs a quiet laugh. “I know the feeling.”
He reaches into his pocket and produces a second pair of shears, the metal worn smooth from use. He offers them to me, handle first.
“You can prune this one,” he says, nodding toward a thick, overgrown bush nearby. “Careful of the thorns.”
Our fingers briefly brush as I take the shears. The contact sends a strange warmth skittering up my arm.
“Wouldn’t dream of being careless in a place like this,” I mutter.
He smirks and returns to his work.
We fall into a companionable rhythm—snipping, rustling, the soft scent of crushed leaves and earth rising around us. Dirt works beneath my nails. My shoulders loosen. The tight coil in my chest eases just a little.
After a minute, he speaks again, his tone all stone and steel. “So,” he says, not looking at me, “what kind of fool volunteers for the Bloodmoon Trials?”
My breath catches.
Did he just—?
I glance up, meeting his gaze over the hedge. “What kind of fool spends his life tending a garden no one else cares about?”
One corner of his mouth quirks.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean to—”
Then, to my surprise, he laughs. “Didn’t mean to what? Be sharp with me? Angry? Sad? Trapped here? And apparentlyimmune to the blue flower tea?” He ticks each accusation off like he’s reading a list I never wrote down.
I say nothing. I don’t need to; he already knows, anyway.
“All of the above, then,” he murmurs, pressing his palm into the earth beside him.
The silence stretches between us. Somehow, it’s comfortable, though still heavy with everything left unsaid.
“I’m sorry the tea didn’t work,” he says softly. “I hoped it would. I’m immune to its effects, too. That’s why I come here when I can’t sleep; it helps quiet my mind. Maybe talking would help you.” He looks at me as if he’s offering something more than conversation. A truce? A thread of trust?
I hesitate. Can I trust him? He hasn’t hurt me yet, but nothing in this place is as it seems.
“Tell you what,” he says. “For every question you answer me, I’ll answer one of yours.”
A fair trade. And I have enough questions to chew a hole through my sanity.
“A secret for a secret?” I ask, leaning in.
