Flowers pelt him from above, sticking to his cheeks and smelling like blood.
Arthur scrapes them off his skin and yells, “What I am is not foryouto decide!”
•••
SILENCE FALLS HEAVY OVER THEvigil. The bonfire snickers.
The moon continues to rise.
Haf thinks about Mairwen and Arthur and Rhun together, how she’s never felt a nuisance to them or as if she didn’t fit into their triad, though most would expect her to. Arthur told her that she should, but she’s good at not being offended by Arthur Couch, because she was there the day they all realized Lyn Couch was a son of her mother, not a daughter, and she remembers the way his eyes teared and he tore at his hair. She remembers wondering about her own body, and talking with her mother about what makes boys and girls, and her mother’s loose answers that never seemed to explain much of anything except pregnancy. She even remembers trying once to say so to Arthur, that there wasn’t much difference, and Arthur’s face turned red, his fists raised, and he followed with the scathing answer that of course a girl can’t understand something that matters so much.
She suspects there’s nothing that will crush Arthur down tonight, unless the devil calls Arthur a girl.
And Rhun Sayer is perfect, so perfect he’s like Three Graces itself, not a person. Haf loves him the way she loves the valley, the way she loves springtime. Mair, after playing the messenger between Haf and Ifan for three weeks, in a game of proposals and passing compliments, had told Haf their courtship dance was ridiculous and she was grateful everyone simply assumed she and Rhun would marry someday. (As if there would be no saint.) “But do you love him?” Haf asked, and Mair said, “I love him best because I love the part of him nobody else sees: that great, empowering sin of pride.”
Oh, but Mairwen, so sharp and ferocious! She is proud as Rhun and hot as Arthur.
Haf hugs herself tightly.
The moon passes its peak, but hours still remain.
•••
THE SAINT, THE WITCH, ANDthe angry boy crash together again—finally!—relief and terror uniting them. Blood mars Mairwen’s chin, Rhun limps, and Arthur is soaking cold and wet. They stare, standing in a triangle, and listen to the shuffle, crack, growl of the devil.
“He’s just behind me,” Mairwen whispers, eyes wide with exhilaration.
•••
ADERYN GRACE STANDS WITH HETTYPugh, their arms wound about each other, faces to the forest.
The Sayer clan is spread like a recalcitrant flock of sheep along the slope, huddled in twos and threes, hands clasped in prayer or just together, passing bottles of wine and whispering to each other.
There is Sy Vaughn at the fire, one boot up on a thick log. He watches the forest with a pinched brow, seeming so much older than he is.
John Upjohn stands alone, and if Mair were here she’d go to him, so that’s what Haf does. She touches Ifan’s hand to let him know. The grass swishes against her skirts as she walks, and there’s frost on the tips of her boots. She says nothing as she joins John.
Cat Dee lists sleepily on her stool, and to Haf’s surprise Gethin Couch paces in short lines back and forth, frowning so deep he probably will never smile again.
She sees her own family, her parents and two sisters, her cousin and nephews and nieces.
Soon after midnight, Haf realizes when the people of Three Graces recite the litany of saints, they’ve added not only Rhun’s name, but Arthur’s and Mairwen’s as well.
It gives her a chill, so cold the tears might freeze in her eyes. Mairwen the witch can’t die, but a saint could—that’s what saints are for. She shakes her head, whispers, “No.”
John Upjohn turns his haunted eyes to her. “I’d have them take my name out of it too,” he says.
•••
“IWON’T LET YOU DIE, RHUNSayer.”
“I don’twantto die, Arthur Couch!” Rhun yells it with such violence he realizes it’s true.
The devil laughs, fangs gleaming, and the boys run.
•••
HAF DRINKS A BIT, FINALLY,and walks to keep her limbs warm, clapping her hands together, snuggling deeper into her shawl. She lets Ifan stand behind her, chest against her shoulders and head, and put his arms around her. He holds tightly, fingers moving against her arms in a gentle massage, and she feels passion stretched between each movement. Haf told Mairwen this morning her Ifan wouldn’t be so polite as Rhun had been if she showed up half naked in his bedroom, though it had mostly been a guess. She has a wild idea now to drag Ifan to a secluded meadow and try it, in Mair’s honor. Her cheeks flush at the thought of grass against her bottom and Ifan’s hands on her breasts, and so does her belly, so does the crook of her thighs, and she leans back into him, entirely aflame.
