Chapter Fourteen
A few nights after the incident in Lord Bludgrave’s study, I lie in the shade of the old oak in the conservatory, attempting to mimic Liv’s nimble movements as she weaves together a crown of hybrid purple blossoms— mystiks , Will called them—as Will tends to his garden.
“Centuries ago,” he tells me about the flowers, his brows pinched as he prunes a nearby rosebush, “a bonewielder crossbred your namesake, an aster, with a rose. Only bonewielders are capable of maintaining them, and few are actually capable of doing so successfully.”
Unlike Will, whose garden seems to overflow with the strange blossom.
Occasionally, I catch myself watching him—noticing the freckles that dust his nose, or the way his lips press together when he focuses, or the subtle, golden glow emanating from his hands when he uses his magic to mend a wilted petal. Each time I find my thoughts drifting to the broadness of his shoulders or the single curl that flops over his forehead no matter how many times he pushes it back, I repeat the same mantra over and over again: Just friends. Just friends. Just friends.
Lately, I have to remind myself more often that I can’t fully trust Will—not after he used magic to urge me to sleep twice —and that, despite our tenuous friendship, he wouldn’t even spend time with me if it weren’t for all that’s happened with the Guild of Shadows and the Sylk. Even though , a voice inside me nags, most of the time he doesn’t even talk about the Underlings . And I find that I don’t entirely mind. After all, even if Will sees me only as an ally—nothing more—I don’t want to push too hard and risk losing… whatever this is between us. Not when he sees my ability as a gift, rather than a curse. Not when I can’t stop thinking about the way he held me the night I saw the Shifter in Elsie and Albert’s room.
Will turns, placing a light touch on my arm. “Are you well, Aster?”
Warmth seems to flow from his hand, and the knot of tension at the nape of my neck unwinds.
“Fine,” I answer almost sleepily, thinking distantly that I don’t remember giving my mouth the command to smile.
His gaze searches my face, and then he smiles, too, turning back to his work without another word.
Even now, I feel as if I’m hearing my own thoughts from somewhere far away—as if I’m screaming at myself to wake up , think , question everything . In the back of my mind, I wonder why, when I’m alone, I find it so much easier to hate Will for using his magic to influence me to do something such as fall asleep against my own desire—something that should feel unforgivable, something that should repulse me—but when I’m with him, it’s as if those thoughts simply fade away. Instead of hating Will, I find myself making excuses for him. And worst of all, I think I might even believe his intentions are pure.
“What about Annie?” I ask Will, attempting to distract myself after staring at the slant of his jaw a little too long. “Is she a bonewielder, too?”
He chuckles softly, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, and I realize I never knew forearms could be so… interesting.
“Children typically inherit their affinities from their parents,” he says. “But not always. I took after our mother; Henry, our father. Annie, however, is what we call a windwalker. She has dominion over the air.”
“I never see her use her magic.”
He smiles. “She’s young. She’s still learning to perfect her gifts. My father wanted to send her to an academy in the capital that specializes in teaching children of nobility, but Mother wouldn’t have it.”
Academies —I’d heard of them before, but the concept was foreign. Aboard the Lightbringer , Mother and Father were our only teachers, the sea our classroom. I can’t imagine attending school with hundreds of other children for hours every day. I certainly can’t imagine preferring it to the invaluable education I received in the world beyond brick walls.
“And the fourth affinity…?”
He nods. “Bloodletters,” he says, tossing aside a stem of dead flowers. “They have dominion over all the waters of the earth.”
“Dominion over water?” The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. The water has always been our sanctuary, our stronghold. But knowing that Nightweavers could so easily take it back from us whenever they pleased… it makes me feel weak.
“Have I met any?” I ask. “Any bloodletters.”
“Not to my knowledge,” Will says, his expression softening.
Yesterday, I heard Sybil and Martin discussing the affinities while I swept the kitchen. I heard them say that bloodletters are considered the most powerful of all the Nightweavers—and the most deadly—but I didn’t hear them mention their ability to control water. From what I’ve learned through eavesdropping, the king and queen are both bloodletters.
And so is the prince.
“What is Percy?”
Will stills, tension bracketing his mouth. “Only the nobility were gifted with affinities. Nightweavers like Percy can do simple magic, but nothing more. Some like him tend to develop a dependency on Manan to give them some semblance of our power.”
I want to ask more about this simple magic, but another thought takes precedence. “Speaking of Manan ,” I say slowly, my focus split between the subject at hand and trying not to prick my fingers as I continue to weave alongside Liv. “Jack made it seem like Father and I would be seasoning your meals with it. But I haven’t even seen a speck of gold dust since we came here.”
Will sits back on his heels, dusting the dirt from his palms. “There has been a shortage,” he reminds me, his forehead creasing. “Regardless, my family has always given more than we take. What small supply we keep for ourselves is used to imbue our gloves and cloaks.”
I start to ask him more about how one might imbue their cloak with magic dust, but something has been nagging at me since I first learned of the Castors’ role in distributing the Manan . “Where does it come from?”
Something dark flickers in Will’s eyes. “Once”—he draws out the word—“it could be harvested from a flower—the Bloodrose. They grew in abundance in Elysia, and when our kind was cast out of our realm, the flowers began to spring up all over the Known World. But over the years, the fields have dried up. There is only one garden left in the Eerie, and it is safeguarded in the capital, Jade, within the walls of Castle Grim.”
I open my mouth to ask what other source of Manan they could be depending on, with so few Bloodroses left, but—“Maker of All!”
Will is at my side in less time than it took to utter the words, moving with preternatural speed. He takes my hand in his, examining the pinprick wound.
“I’m fine,” I insist. “Just a stupid thorn.”
But as the tiny drop of crimson wells on the tip of my finger, I’m reminded of what Will said the night the Hackneys were murdered, what he did.
“You said human blood was the purest source of Manan ,” I whisper. “If there is a shortage, wouldn’t that make our blood a resource?”
Will heaves a sigh, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaning the blood from my finger with utmost care. A golden light rims his green eyes for the briefest moment, but before my terror spikes, the glow fades, and my fear is swiftly replaced by the flutter in my stomach as Will’s fingers brush mine. “An extremely valuable one,” he admits, his brows drawn. “But that’s not something you should worry about. The law forbids the taking of human blood.”
“But Percy does it,” I say, glaring at the bloody handkerchief as Will folds it and tucks it away in his shirt pocket. I don’t want to think about how many children—little girls like Elsie—Percy has taken for that very reason.
Will takes the crown of mystiks from my lap and continues weaving, his fingers just as nimble and deft as Liv’s. “I think,” he whispers, placing the finished crown atop my head, “you would make an excellent queen.”
“If I were queen,” I say, rolling my eyes at how ridiculous those words sound coming out of my mouth, “my first decree would be to have Percy strung up from the castle walls.”
“Surely you could think of something more creative than that,” Will teases.
“Surely,” I agree. “But I’m afraid it would be far too gruesome for your lordship to hear.”
Will’s green eyes sparkle, his smile revealing dimples in either cheek. “Now that,” he says, adjusting the floral crown atop my head, “is what I like most about you.”
“Oh?” A blush creeps up my neck, into my cheeks. “Are you referring to my needless concern for your gentle sensibilities or my inspired taste for violence?”
His grin turns wicked. “ Inspired is the least of words I’d use to describe your appetite for violence,” he murmurs, his hand straying to my cheek. “But the notion that you find me gentle…” His thumb brushes my lips, sending a shiver through me. “That will be my undoing.”
He leans in, his breath warm on my face, his eyes drifting shut, and I find myself closing the distance between us, my lips parting on a shaky breath—
A howl splits the air, and I jump back, knocking the crown of mystiks from my head. Will’s husky laughter is the only thing that keeps me from getting to my feet to flee.
“Only the wolves again.” He smirks, leaning back against the trunk of the old oak. “I told them not to do that while we’re here, but they must have thought it would be humorous to scare you.”
“I’m not scared.” I grab a mystik from the supply Liv gathered, fiddling with the petals. “And what do you mean you told them?”
Will flashes a charming smile. “My affinity allows me to communicate with all living things.” He pats the trunk of the tree. “The flowers, the trees, the insects—the wolves.”
“That must be incredible.” I think about Albert, and how he’d do anything just to have a conversation with one of the many squirrels that occupy the grounds. I can’t help feeling that in a world where a boy can speak to trees and where wolves have a sense of humor, anything could be possible.
“It can be,” he agrees, but his face falls as he plucks a blade of grass, tosses it aside, plucks another.
“I’m sure it can also be overwhelming,” I say, watching him carefully.
His mouth twists, the makings of a frown. “Would you like to know why I joined the League of Seven?” he asks, his question catching me somewhat off guard.
I nod, unsure of what to say. I thought the nobility were expected to serve; I didn’t realize Will had a choice in the matter.
Will’s expression softens, but his gaze is closed off, as if he were reliving memories he’d prefer to keep to himself. “When I first joined the League four years ago,” he says finally, his voice quiet, “I did so to keep Boris from being drafted.”
Boris—the Castors’ mild-mannered chauffeur—has not spoken more than a few words to me since we arrived. But I don’t take it personally. From what I’ve observed, he doesn’t speak much at all.
“He was conscripted just one year before his eligibility expired, at thirty-nine. Nobility aren’t required to fight—it’s discouraged, actually, in order to keep the bloodlines intact—but I petitioned the prince, and he accepted my offer to serve in Boris’s place.
“During my first tour, we were in the trenches on the outskirts of the Burning Lands. I was cataloguing supplies when I heard news that an entire unit of soldiers was possessed by Sylks. My commanding officer ordered that I be the one to deal with the executions of all sixty men and women.”
“Why you?” I ask, thinking how young Will was at the time—barely fifteen years old.
He grimaces, fiddling with a blade of grass. “The stronger a Nightweaver’s magic, the harder it is for an Underling to possess them. Sylks shy away from possessing the nobility, as only Nightweavers who are weak in magic are susceptible to their control.” He creases the blade of grass, his long, pale fingers twitching restlessly. “I knew when I joined that I would eventually be called upon to handle certain matters, but…”
His throat bobs. I’ve never seen him this distressed, his expression this unguarded. I remain motionless, waiting for him to continue.
“Our scientists are unable to figure out why, but wolves are one of the only creatures of your world whose bite can expel a Sylk. My commanding officer ordered me to lure a starving pack of wolves to a large pit that had been dug outside the base camp.” He grinds his teeth, his jaw clenched. “Once I did, he ordered me to throw the soldiers in, one by one.”
He falls silent for a long moment, his stare fixed on something far away.
“They’re still them when they die,” he says, his voice breaking. “The hosts are aware of everything that happens to them, even though they have no control over their own bodies.” He pauses, his chin trembling ever so slightly, and I suppress a shudder at the thought of feeling so trapped, so helpless—a feeling I know all too well. “The Sylks—they laughed as the bodies were torn apart. Didn’t even command their hosts to fight. They knew when they possessed them what would happen—they wanted it to happen. But the people… their screams…”
The blade of grass rips in his trembling hands. He glares at the ground, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. He takes a deep breath, his glassy eyes drifting up to meet mine.
“I never wanted to be what I am.”
His words strike me like a blow to the stomach.
“I…” My voice breaks. “I didn’t, either.”
Will studies my face as if it were the first time he’d ever seen me. “And what do you want to be now?”
I can’t imagine why, but the memory of Captain Shade’s masked face pops into my head at Will’s question. What do I want to be? No one has ever asked me that. I think of Captain Shade’s outstretched hand—his offer. Safe. Do I want to be safe? Could I be?
No. There is no safety to be had in this world. I want to find Owen’s killer. I want to be left alone—free to sail the Western Sea with a purse full of coin and the wind in my hair, my compass leading me toward the sanctuary of the Red Island. But if I am to have those things, I have to be just as merciless as those who seek to control my fate.
I clench my fist around the invisible hilt of a cutlass, feeling its phantom weight in my grasp. “I want to be powerful.”
Will’s lips curl in a wicked smirk. “Aster Oberon, pirate of the Western Sea,” he croons, “you are something much more than that.” He leans forward, retrieving the crown of mystiks from where it fell. He places it atop my head once more, his gaze lingering on my mouth, where his thumb brushed my lips. “You are feared.”
Feared. Cursed. Hated.
That grinning, skeletal mask stains my mind’s eye like a blot of scarlet ink. I look away from Will, studying the mystiks scattered around me like a ceremonial ring as I attempt to scour the bounty hunter’s masked face from my subconscious. Ever the gentleman, Will shifts to sit with his back against the tree once more, his gaze fastened on my eyes as if he could see where my thoughts have drifted.
“He was there that day, when we made port.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize I’ve said them aloud. “Your… informant ,” I add awkwardly. “He stopped an execution.”
“I heard,” Will says, his expression guarded as he gets to his feet. “Father read about it in the papers.”
“Captain Shade didn’t tell you?”
Will’s lips quirk slightly. “I haven’t had a chance to speak with him since I returned.”
I fidget with the band of leather at my wrist. I never mentioned what happened that day to Margaret or the others, and they never asked why I was separated from them. Everyone was far too worried about Charlie. Besides, if Margaret heard I was face-to-mask with Captain Shade for the second time in my life, she’d think I hallucinated the whole ordeal.
“He offered to take me with him.” I don’t know why I tell Will, but once I’ve started, I can’t stop, as if the secret has been bursting to get out. “It’s a long story. I stole his necklace. He wanted it back. We happened to cross paths that day in town. He said he could…” The words stick in my throat. “He said he could keep me safe.”
Will’s taciturn expression never falters, but his eyes flash with mild surprise. “He did?” He kneels, turning his attention back to the rosebush, clipping away at the diseased canes with renewed interest. “Why didn’t you go with him?”
I take one of the mystiks Liv has discarded, rubbing its soft petals between my fingertips and savoring its sweet aroma. “Charlie was hurt,” I say. “And I couldn’t leave Elsie—not when Owen died trying to protect her.” Protecting me .
Will nods slowly. “Do you know why roses are left at graves?”
His sudden change of subject sends my mind into a whirl, and I shake my head.
“Long ago, my people thought your world’s roses were no different from Elysian Bloodroses,” he says, his back turned to me. “They would leave them over the recently deceased in the hopes that the Manan within the flowers would bring their loved ones back to life.”
He prunes a cane, inspecting it with utmost curiosity. A tiny rosebud managed to survive, an isolated bloom on the dead branch, defying nature’s lawful cycle with its will to live.
“In recent history, roses have been scorned by my kind,” he says, tossing the branch aside. “A mockery of the Bloodrose—a reminder of the power we once held. But to your ancestors, roses represented romance, passion.”
He clips a single, healthy rose from the bush before turning to kneel and face me. He presents it to me with a flourish, and my face goes uncomfortably hot.
“There is only one thing more powerful than fear, Aster,” he says, his voice dark and deep, as rich as honey and as smooth as velvet as he tucks the rose behind my ear.
“What?” I whisper, nearly breathless.
His boyish grin reveals the dimples in his cheeks. “Love.”