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You’re a good person, Rose had told her with a smile on that day.
And Laine had looked away, unable to bear the earnest love in her eyes.
No, I’m not, she had thought to herself. If only you knew.
Tonight, the park is quiet and dusted in light snow, silent while the rest of the city hums along. Laine’s crossbow pack bounces against her back as she makes her way along rows of winter trees toward the Conservatory Garden, a six-acre stretch within the park. As she goes, she finds herself thinking back to what Étienne had told her right before they were both assigned to the attack in the alley.
You shouldn’t have bonded so much with your mark, he’d said. You’re making it that much harder for yourself.
It wasn’t up to me, she’d answered. It just happened.
He’d just shrugged at her. So. Tell me more about this friend of yours. Seems like Thorn has also assigned me to her for my next job.
Laine’s steps quicken. Her heart is beating rapidly. What could Willow want with her tonight? Had something happened to Rose? To Étienne?
The Conservatory Garden is closed this late at night, the wrought iron gates locked up, but when Laine arrives, she merely approaches the entrance and stands there for a moment before an attendant in a green suit walks over.
She says nothing to him, but he just nods grumpily, then pulls out a stack of keys to unlock the gate.
“Thank you,” Laine murmurs to him as she steps inside. He hands her a steaming mug filled with something that smells like coffee, then mutters something under his breath as he slides the gate shut behind her.
Laine sips delicately at the hot drink as she goes. It warms every corner of her body, rich and hot and subtly floral, protecting her as she enters this immortal space. To regular visitors, this conservatory looks like a curated garden—but Laine can see an elegant glass structure rising from the center of the space, its interior so filled with lush plants that she can barely see anything but a wall of greenery.
She makes her way to the greenhouse, then steps inside. Temperate, humid air wraps around her like a blanket. All along the damp pathway are plants—enormous scarlet hibiscus, branches covered in buttery yellow blossoms, fuchsia bushes crowded with delicate, ballerina-like flowers. Trees with giant leaves stretch all the way up to the glass ceiling.
In spite of everything, Laine relaxes her shoulders a bit.
She reaches a quiet central pond surrounded by a circular stone clearing and arching trees. Here, she sees Willow, a dark silhouette standing near the pond’s statue. It is always curious, the way you can pick out a god in the mortal world. There is nothing particularly remarkable about the woman, who is wrapped in a pale winter coat and a cream-colored scarf. Only a pair of green emerald earrings look startling against her dark skin. But there is something about the woman that makes her look like she doesn’t quite belong here, a way her silhouette seems to stand out a little too starkly against the background, as if she was cut out of the fabric of space and placed over this garden instead of actually standing in it.
“Raven doesn’t know you called for me?” Laine guesses as she reaches Willow.
The goddess’s eyes meet her in the darkness. “No,” she replies. “This stays between us.”
Laine bows her head once. “What’s happened?”
“I remember when Raven first claimed you for himself.” Willow tilts her head slightly at Laine. “I remember, because you hesitated.”
Shielding her mother. Seeing Raven standing calmly nearby, offering her life.
Laine scowls and pushes away the memory. She meets Willow’s gaze. “What does that have to do with tonight?” she asks. “Why am I here?”
“I need you to betray your god,” Willow says.
Her stomach turns, and yet, at the same time, she feels a jolt of anticipation. Something in the immortal realm has ruptured. “Why?” she whispers.
“Raven has found the first light. He intends to break the balance of the world.”
The first light. Laine shakes her head. “That’s impossible,” she says. “The first light has never reappeared.”
“It has,” Willow answers, and the finality in the goddess’s voice is so severe that Laine knows, in her heart, that it’s true. “And it has appeared in the heart of someone you care for.”
Even before Willow says her name, Laine knows. Still, she asks. “Who?”
“Rose Lin Fairchild.”
Rose.
Everything in her lurches.
