“It smells like rot.”
“Good rot,” she insists. “Restorative rot.”
Rowan hums thoughtfully. “It smells worse than it tastes.”
I narrow my eyes at him. There is somethingentirelyuntrustworthy in his expression.
A woman nearby, broad-shouldered and red-cheeked, leans over with a wooden scoop. “First time?” she asks.
Before I can object, Aileen accepts it eagerly.
“For your health,” the woman says solemnly.
Aileen lifts the scoop and drinks. Rowan watches with barely contained anticipation.
I hesitate. Rowan meets my gaze and, to my surprise, reaches for the scoop once it’s free.
He drinks. Casually, without flinching.
“See?” he says, wiping his mouth. “Perfectly safe.”
That does it. I lift the scoop and swallow.
This must be the worst thing I have ever tasted in my entire life; it’s so utterly wrong. I choke, coughing and laughing all at once, eyes watering. Aileen dissolves into giggles beside me.
“I would rather die young,” I manage, handing the scoop back, “than drink that every day.”
Rowan nods gravely. “A sensible choice.”
The woman bursts into cackles. “That’s what we all say.”
Rowan finally grins. “Truth is, most of us only drink it when we’re already sick.” He pauses, then adds, “Or very drunk.”
Aileen laughs outright now, completely unrepentant.
I wipe my mouth and glare at them both. “You set me up.”
Rowan spreads his hands. “Welcome to Acheron.”
We wander deeper into the town, unhurried. I stop at a fabric stall, fingers trailing over linen dyed the color of moss, wool soft as cloud. Aileen bargains shamelessly. I buy yarn I do not need and ribbon I certainly do not need, simply because it is spring and the colors make me happy.
I feel light, as though I have stepped back into myself after a long absence. I had not even noticed how much I had changed, how careful I had become. How shaped I am by expectation and watching eyes. Here, in the noise and the press of bodies and the scent of flowers and bread, I feel like the old me again—the girl who spoke before thinking and loved to laugh.
We pass musicians playing pipes and drums, their rhythm quick and bright. Petals are being tossed into the air, caught in hair and sleeves.
Eventually, the street curves, and the light changes.
The chapel rises before us.
It is nothing like the houses around it. Stone piled highuntil it almost touches the sky. Its walls are thick, its windows narrow and dark, set deep into the structure like watchful eyes. Even in daylight, it casts a long shadow, cutting the street in two. People skirt it instinctively, as though stepping into that shadow might invite something unwelcome.
I slow my steps.
It’s magnificent.
I tilt my head back, taking in the sheer height of it. I try to imagine the hands that built it, the effort, the knowledge it must have taken to raise something so enormous.
“How does anyone build something like this?” I murmur.
