He gives a soft exhalation, a bewildered sound. “I thought you would?—”
Frustratingly, he seems to pull himself up and doesn’t finish his sentence.
“You thought I would what?” I press. When he remains silent, I can’t stop my own sigh. “Do you want me to destroy the orchard or not?”
The furrow in his brow deepens and a new snarl leaves his lips. In his voice, I detect the smallest hint of a dragon’s growl for the first time since the fight with my father.
“That orchard should fucking burn,” he says.
“I can make that happen if you tell me why you hate it so much.”
“I hate it,” he says, “because the orchard it represents is where all the pain started.”
My eyes widen. It isn’t an elaborate answer, but it isn’t an evasion either, and I’m surprised by it. Even more so when he continues.
“I hate it because of the malice that thrived because of it. I hate it because it tore my family apart. And I hate it because its history will continue to tear families apart.”
His family.
He has never spoken of his family before. In fact, he led me to believe that he didn’t remember anything about his life before he became the keeper. But then, as has become painfully clear to me, he lies.
He could be lying now, too.
I take another look at the orchard, recalling what Jonah told me about how he met my mother. He said he came upon a cottage that was situated beside an apple orchard, just like that one. She was sweeping out the pain.
Even my mother and Jonah associated the original orchard with pain, just as Emil does.
Which makes me believe there is truth in what Emil said.
I find myself scouring my memory for any instance where my mother described the cottage or the orchard to me. She must have at least mentioned the cottage, or I wouldn’t have dreamed about it in so much detail. Maybe she spoke of it when I was very little so that the images live in my subconscious and only come out when I sleep.
“I need to sweep out the pain,” I say, a quiet declaration.
“Sweeping is not enough.” Emil backs away from the doorway, and I’m certain he’s about to retreat into the shadows again.
I can’t allow him to do that. Not when he’s finally giving me answers.
“No.”
I’m not sure exactly what I’m sayingnoto, but my left hand is raised.
As if I could stop him by the force of my will alone.
When he pauses, partially concealed in shadow, I lower my voice. “I know better than most that there are some wounds that never heal.”
He is not so deep within the darkness of the cottage that I miss the way he flinches.
He will understand my meaning.
Hecan’t atone for taking my mother’s life. Assuming any part of what the book showed me is true.
“But I made you a promise,” I say. “So stay and watch. Or don’t. That’s your choice.”
I turn on my heel and stride back toward the orchard, intent on violence.
As I approach it, the energy within the trees strikes me hard.
All of its sparkling prettiness. All of the impulses that buzz at me. And then, once again, and horribly unbidden, those cold commands that rush through my mind.
