Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
Ihear the shuffling of leaves as a breeze tumbles through the trees outside my window as I wake up. My eyes are reluctant to open, even as the chorus of nature continues, and the rising sun spills dappled light across my room.
I’m not sure I want to be awake. I yearn for the peace sleep provides me, for the way my memories cannot reach me there.
It’s been two days since we buried Dahlia and Pearl, and ever since I returned home that bitter evening, I have barely moved. I have barely left my bed for fear of collapsing where I stand.
I haven’t been able to face the bright days that await me outside these walls, not when everything feels so dark.
And everything feels so dark.
I can’t seem to stop the overwhelming swell of guilt that plagues me. I can’t help but think that if I had only found the dosage for the belladonna sooner, if I had only gone to Thorley’s that afternoon instead of waiting, that maybe things would be different.
The rational part of my mind breaks through occasionally, reminding me that those women had been tortured for days, if not longer, and that I wouldn't have found Dahlia at Thorley’s practice that day. But it does little to quell the way I'm feeling.
But if I do not get up today, I fear I never will. I fear I will be one of those people whose grief swallows them whole before their bed does, before their house does, before their mind does, and before the earth does.
I swing my feet over the edge of my bed, my toes cold as they hit the wooden floor. Though every morning is a bit warmer than the last, reminding me that the equinox is right around the corner.
I shiver before I change into my plain linen skirts and walk out to the kitchen. The view immediately captures my attention—sprinkling rain dancing through the trees, the water shining as the sun continues to climb its way up the sky, the day slowly waking up.
It is only a moment of peace before my mind takes me to the foggy evening from a few nights ago.
Guilt smothers me once more as I think about the fact that Dahlia and Pearl won’t ever see beauty like this again.
That all the people who have been accused of witchcraft won’t ever experience life again.
I’m caught in a push and pull of feeling guilty for standing here yet knowing that I should treasure the fact that I am able to do so.
When the sound of wood creaking comes from my porch, my heart jumps in my chest. I throw open the door and walk out into the misty air to see a figure sitting on top of the wooden balustrade. “Morning, Rosie.”
Rylan is wearing his signature look, the one where his sandy hair is a bit fussed, and he’s got that gleam in his eyes. But this morning he looks almost ethereal, with the delicate rain falling behind him and the glow of the sun shining in the gold flecks in his eyes.
I have to force words out of my mouth. “What are you doing at my house again?”
He slides onto his feet, that gleam in his eye softening. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” I ask. “For showing up at my home unannounced, or for dragging me into a lie that I am now stuck in?”
His expression changes, almost as if he hadn’t expected that reaction from me. “Did you want to tell him what really happened?”
“No, of course I didn’t.”
“And why is that?” he asks, his gaze all-knowing.
“Oh, I wonder.” I scratch my temple in faux contemplation. “Perhaps because explaining that the only reason you know where I live is because you must have stalked me and were watching me from the woods one night doesn’t sound at all normal, or safe.”
“Yet, you show no signs of fear of me, only of how he would react to knowing that you are spending time with your supposed stalker.”
“Yes, well, saying it out loud makes me wonder what in the gods’ names I’m doing still speaking to you myself.” I run a hand over my brow, my exhaustion catching up with me already.
“I didn’t stalk you,” he says.
I merely roll my eyes. “Do you believe I am that easily fooled?” And maybe I am considering that I've not questioned him about it until now.
“No,” he says. “I believe you are far more intelligent than I, but I’m not trying to fool you.”
I just lean back against the outside of the cabin, waiting for his explanation.
“This forest,” he says, looking behind himself.
“It feels alive, doesn’t it?” My eyebrows pull together because I know precisely what he means, but no one else seems to.
“I have found myself wandering it at night, finding comfort in the nature’s presence.
That night I simply wandered here. I could see the warm light from the lantern from within the trees.
” He nods to where my oil lantern hangs just above me.
“I was curious to figure out where it was coming from, and when I reached the clearing, I saw you. I saw these curls through the window.” He reaches out, a delicate finger finding itself in the ends of my hair.
I blink an unnecessary number of times. “And perhaps I should have walked away, but I didn’t. ”
He pulls his hand away, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Being in this man’s proximity is like standing out in a clearing in a windstorm. You can never quite find your feet, being pushed one way and then another, never knowing entirely what to expect.
“And yesterday, I truly came to see if you were okay. I didn’t intend to drag you into a lie, but he asked the question.” The lilt in his voice makes an appearance at the end of his sentence, forcing me to swallow a small smile. I don’t want to smile.
“And today?” I ask.
Rylan fiddles with a ring on his middle finger that I’ve never noticed him wearing before, spinning it around his knuckle. “I heard you buried them.”
My heart sinks in my chest—I wasn’t certain it could drop any further. It almost feels as if the temperature out here changed just as Rylan’s tone did.
I just nod, my body wrenching back up the twisted feeling in my stomach from when I let that soil slip through my fingers.
“I’m sorry you had to do that.”
“As am I,” I say, leaning over the balustrade and looking out over the woods. “Not as sorry as Hawthorne should be.”
Rylan comes to lean beside me. “Something tells me he isn’t sorry at all.” His tone is laced with despair.
I can’t help but take note of the way that every time I see Rylan, I see a different side to him. He intrigues me beyond comprehension. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought.
He inhales a long breath, spinning the ring on his finger. It’s detailed, like it has a pattern in it, but with his fingers rolling it around I can’t pinpoint it. I don’t have the energy to even try to.
“Does it make me a bad person that I am somewhat glad I wasn’t there?” He clears his throat, his voice softening. “To see it, I mean.”
I turn around, leaning back against the wood as he does. I meet his concerned gaze before I shake my head. “That doesn’t make you a bad person, Rylan. Only one who does not wish to witness a tragedy. Though I’m not certain how long any of us have left before that is all we will witness.”
Rylan goes quiet, subtly nodding his head as he crosses one foot over the other. I remember our conversation in the trees, when he told me that his mother had died, and the day he spoke of regret. Perhaps he has witnessed more tragedy than I know.
“Do you know what happened to Dunsmoor?” I ask. “What they did with his body?” He works in town; he may have heard whispers in the last few days.
He shakes his head once more. “I tried to follow the blood, but they must have picked him up, because all of a sudden it just stopped.”
“You tried to look for him?” Why would he do that? He didn’t know the man.
“It wasn’t a gallant effort, I don’t know what they have done with him.” He runs a hand over his furrowed brow. “I can’t stop thinking about his wife.” I don’t say a word, not having anything to say. I can’t imagine the pain she’s feeling.
Before I can form a response, a flash of orange catches my eye, and a butterfly lands on the front of my dress, pulling at that smile I forced down earlier.
“Hello there,” I whisper, looking down at where it slowly fans its wings, displaying the warm orange and black design. It’s almost like a physical reminder, something bright in a moment of total darkness.
I lift up my hand, placing my finger just near where the butterfly is perched on my bodice and it instantly crawls onto my hand, its delicate movements tickling my skin.
It’s funny how people assume we humans make things beautiful when things like this exist outside of our influence.
Rylan hums a noise, as if he’s noticing something. “What?” I ask.
“This is the third time I have seen animals acting extraordinarily around you. First the fish at the lake, then the dragonfly in the woods, and now this.”
I don’t know how he saw the dragonfly from his perch all the way up on his tall branch, and it makes me wonder how long he was watching me.
Nerves tickle the base of my spine knowing that he has seen me interact with animals like this. It is more than enough for him to accuse me of the very thing that could leave me hanging at the end of a rope. Left to be buried under the willow tree next to Dahlia and Pearl.
Yet, based on what very little I know of him, I don’t think he would be the kind to feed into the madness. Though I'm sure that is what many people thought about their friends, their neighbours, before they turned on each other. Rylan owes me no loyalty.
“I wouldn’t say any of that is extraordinary,” I say, holding my hand up and letting the insect feel the sun on its wings.
“I don’t know,” he says, watching me. “I would say this is quite extraordinary. You are quite extraordinary.”
My cheeks heat at the tone of his voice, at the way he sounds so casual yet so intentional at the same time. When I meet his gaze and see the way his eyes shoot right to the colour on my cheeks, I’m reminded of his little nickname for me.
I look away right before the butterfly takes off, flitting through the rain almost as if it’s trying to avoid getting the drops of water on its wings.
I close my eyes with a sigh, letting myself soak up the moment of calmness, of goodness before I’m met once again with the knowledge that Rylan is standing next to me on my porch.
“I brought you something,” he says, his voice devoid of any humour or charm that I am so used to.
He reaches behind him and pulls something out of the waistband of his pants. He holds it in front of me, and it takes me a moment to recognise what I am looking at. “Here.”
I take the long, pointed leather case from his grasp, looking back at him when I feel the weight of it in my hands. “What is this?”
“Open it.”
I do, pulling on the dome and opening the case, my palm meeting steel as I pull out a dagger.
“I don’t understand,” I say, running my fingers over the intricate detail on the hilt of the dagger.
Steel vines are entwined around the handle, leading down to the sharp blade that shines in the soft light.
A floral design is etched into the metal itself, trailing down the centre of the blade, and it’s heavy. Very heavy.
“I thought you could use it,” he says. I look up at him before running my fingertips over the dark green stone embedded in the pommel. “You know, for cutting herbs and creating your little potions.” Humour floods his tone now.
“That’s not funny,” I say, looking up at him through my lashes, but when I see the smirk on his face, I look straight back down.
“It’s a little bit funny.”
I just look back up at him once more, wondering where this weapon came from.
How he got his hands on something so well crafted, so beautiful.
Something like this could only come from a place far from Sylvan, somewhere that these details would cost more coin than I’ve ever held. “Where did you get this?”
He just shrugs, his voice nonchalant. “My mother had it. I found it buried under a pile of her books—”
My gaze whips to where he stands beside me. “This was your mother’s?” He merely nods. “Don’t you want it?” I ask, motioning for him to take it back.
His brows furrow with a subtle shake of his head. “I think it suits you better, and I thought you might like it.”
I return my attention to the weapon, taking in the beautiful details of it once more. “Of course I like it.”
“I also wondered if you might like it for more than just your potions. If you might use it to protect yourself if you ever come across the need.” His voice isn’t nonchalant any longer, and all of a sudden, the moist air feels heavy.
I have never questioned whether I needed a weapon to protect myself or not—danger has never lived in these parts. It terrifies me that this is something I am even considering. But I am considering it.
Months ago, I would have laughed in the face of someone who told me I needed to protect myself with a dagger. But after what has happened in the last week, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched an idea.
“I wouldn’t want to have to save you again,” Rylan says, filling the silence I left with my thinking.
I roll my eyes at his arrogance as I hold the blade up, testing the weight. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to protect myself with this.”
“Stick them with the pointy end.”
My eyes roll once more. “My saviour,” I mock. “You are so undeniably clever. How did I not think of that myself?”
“Well, you did say you didn’t know the first thing about it,” he chirps back, his tongue in his cheek.
I shake my head, looking back down at the weapon. It looks precious, like it’s from an ancient land, something that should be treasured, yet he’s handing it to me like it’s nothing.
“I’ve got to go.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck before he’s heading towards the steps. “But remember what I said.”
“Stick them with the pointy end?”
That smirk of his tugs at the corner of his lips, but it’s only a second before it’s replaced with the sombre look he wore when I first came outside. “That I’m sorry.”