Relief. She had thought it was that, at the time. Basic, animal.
Then, in the entrance of the cavern, she told him her secret, something no one else knew. That she’d named her trophy. She’d never even told Johanna; she knew Johanna would have taken the bird away. Would think it was frivolous, the folly of a much younger child, the kind of nonsense that meant she was unserious, the kind that got a person killed.
A ridiculous secret. Not a beautiful one like his, but no less dear. And he laughed.
Thenerveof him. The viciousness. She’d been ready to lash out, to cut back. But she’d been stunned into silence by his reaction to her anger. Not annoyed disinterest, or hateful contempt.
He lookedhurt. Like she’d misunderstood him and it wounded him that she had. Like she had the ability to wound him.
It occurred to her then that his perfectly tuned voice had been wavering incessantly since they’d come back across one another’s paths. His carefully molded mask cracked like clay on a summer’s day.
Perhaps she had misunderstood him. Perhaps she had misunderstood him completely. Or – more dangerous still – perhaps she hadn’t.
And before she could process what that might mean, he was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Like he wanted to close the distance between them in every possible way.
She turned away from him, to the dark, because in that moment, she knew. She did not want to hunt the phoenix; she did not want to do Mira’s bidding. She did not want to lie to Sy anymore.
She wanted him to look at her like that again. Again and again.
Bad luck, she thought now, watching him marvel at the florid grotto.What putrid, rotten fucking luck.
Suddenly exhausted, she dropped her pack. The mimic’s cut on her arm throbbed. He watched her gingerly set down her bow and quiver. “I’m staying here until nightfall. You do what you like.”
His brow furrowed. “I won’t pretend to know your craft, but won’t it escape? And won’t chasing it be safer during the day? Easier?”
“I’m tired,” she said flatly. It wasn’t a lie. The past day had left her completely drained.
“Your eyes,” he realized, looking her over. “You can’t go into the sun.”
Defeated, she closed them. Ever observant, wasn’t he?
“Anya, please. Tell me what hurts you. There must be something I can do.”
“HowI wish you would stop asking me that. I’m fine,” she snapped, then stopped, because as the words left her mouth, she felt tiny thorns piercing through every pore of her skin, and then her skull exploded.
This time, the pain did not linger, because she blacked out.
It was a deep sleep, like before. Dreamless, but not peaceful. Something called to her, like the crouching silence of the night, the things breathing, waiting, outside the arms of the rowan tree. It would be so easy to cry out, to let her fear take her, to let the silence take her in her fear. To taste the violet beauty, the green, all-encompassing sleep.
But she still had so much to do. She didn’t know what, but something important. She would rest here, a while. Just a short while, in the dark, in the green.
When she awoke, she did not feel well rested, but she was no longer in pain. She felt along her face, her chest. Nothing more seemed to have changed; not externally, anyway.
Except one thing – the gash on her arm was healed.
She realized she had been moved into the bed of moss. Clusters of forget-me-nots cradled her limbs. Her head had been propped up on her pack, her braid laid carefully over her shoulder.
The sun had set. Fireflies danced lazily above and around the pool, now indigo.
Sy was still there. He’d managed to make a fire. He must have climbed outside for the wood, then back down, his arms full. It would have taken several trips.
He sat beside it, examining Mira’s arrow in the low light. She closed her eyes. So, he had seen its strange markings. That was why he stopped her from shooting the bird. He had known she was hiding something, and now he knew the arrow was part of it.
He had pulled parchment and a pencil from his kit. He turned from the arrow to his paper, scribbling something busily.
She sat up. At the movement, he looked up, and his pencil stilled on the page. Slowly, he set it aside.
“It’s something the forest has done to you. It’s killing you. Isn’t it?”
