“I’m merely telling you what I think.”
Lottie sighs, expelling her nerves before she speaks. “I want to show you my favorite tattoo.”
“Show me,” she says before she can stop herself. This is whatshe has always wanted from Lottie—a chance to see her,reallysee her, and the art that makes up her person.
Lottie stands from the bed, allowing her body to be exposed to the candlelight. She keeps one arm over her breasts, and she extends her other arm to Marigold, bringing her in closer. There are black tattoos that cover her thighs, hips, and stomach. Flowers, faces, and more Latin phrases. Lottie says nothing as Marigold’s eyes wander over her entire body, every scarred and inked inch touched by her gaze.
She stares for a long time. Too long. Pointing to a string of Latin across her rib cage, she asks, “What does this one mean?”
Lottie brings her hand in closer, letting it brush against the tattoo. She traces the tiny letters with her soft trembling fingers.
Vita brevis, ars aeternus
“Life is short, art is forever,” Lottie says.
“And this one is your favorite?” Her voice is a dry whisper. Lottie shakes her head and takes Marigold’s hand from her ribs to the space below her breasts. In this place sits a delicate arrow. She drops her other arm that was concealing her chest, letting the candlelight illuminate her entire body. Marigold gasps as she moves her head quickly, but Lottie brings a hand to her cheek and directs her gaze back down. She tucks Marigold’s hair behind her ear, letting her nails drag softly through her wavy blond hair. With her other hand, she wraps her fingers around Marigold’s hand and traces the lines of her sternum tattoo.
“This one is my favorite. And it’s the first I ever did. I love it.”
Every detail is perfect; the lines are smooth and solid. There is an intricate pattern of swirls and shapes surrounding the arrow. The longer she stares, she realizes that this arrow bears a striking similarity to the rune that she paints in the corners of the cottage during a protection spell. The same one on the back of her father’s paintings. It could be chance, but she is all too clever to believe in happenstance over fate.
“Mari?” Lottie says, bringing her attention back up to her eyes.
Her blood is striking through her veins like lightning. “What made you want this one?” she asks as she flattens her palm over it, letting her fingers brush against the sides of Lottie’s breasts.
Lottie’s breath hitches. “Remember how I said I don’t remember much of my parents? And I don’t remember the fire? Well, I remember this,” she says, keeping Marigold’s hand on the ink. “I don’t know where it came from, but this image is my first-ever memory. When I try to think of my childhood and what my life was like before the fire, this is all I can see.”
Marigold’s eyes widen, and her lips part in shock. Lottie said her mother believed in magic. She never said that her mother tried touseit. Clearly, she does not know what this rune means. Marigold cannot take her eyes away from the tattoo. What is hidden away in the back of Lottie’s mind? What memories of hers hold the key to understanding this? Somehow, Lottie has been able to see the landvættir upon the isle. She has a tattoo to protect her, though she does not know what it means. And most of all, Marigold is beginning to care for her in a way that she shouldn’t, in a way that she never expected, and if she did not know it to be impossible, she would think that Lottie cares for her as well.
“What are you thinking?”
Marigold places her hand in the space between her breasts. “I want one.”
Lottie raises a brow. “You want what?”
“I want a tattoo. I want a tattoo of a bee in that same spot. I’ll pay any price.”
Lottie laughs so hard that she brings both of her hands up to her mouth. “You are joking.”
“I…” She stumbles over her words as she pretends to still only be looking at Lottie’s tattoo. “I think I am serious. Can we do it now? Before I get too scared?”
Lottie looks her up and down and ponders, her smirk widening into a grin. “Okay. Undress, Witch.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
This idea is absurd. It’s spontaneous, dangerous, and a bunch of other things that she cannot think of right now because if she thinks about it any longer, she will lose the courage to do it. Lottie dons her chemise again and starts readying her supplies on the nightstand in their suite. Marigold pulls the chaise closer to a sconce with a little light. She then unties the ribbons of her light pink dress until it loosens from her form and falls to the ground. Her stay is more difficult to undo, but she manages to slide it off before Lottie approaches.
“And this,” Lottie says as she playfully plucks the straps of Marigold’s chemise, and her fingernail scratches her shoulder, sending shivers down her entire body.
“I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be nervous, Mari. The pain isn’t nearly as bad as you might think.”
“No, I’m not scared of the pain. I’m scared of you seeing me… like this. Seeing all of me… you know…” She motions to her chest, and Lottie laughs.
“You’re hardly the first naked woman I’ve seen.”
Blushing, she says, “But you are the first I’ve seen, and the first whom I’ll let see me. And it doesn’t help that you’re so—”
