Chapter 32
Lyra
I’M DEFINITELY SORE NOW, TO the point where after taking another bath with Cairn, I have to settle myself onto the couch delicately, wincing a bit in the process.
Four fingers—that’s all it took to make me ache like this.
Yet I still can’t deny I want to feel more, want to feel all of him.
I realize, though, that I’m not yet ready, and I’m grateful to Cairn for taking his time with me, for making sure when he does finally fuck me, it’ll be good for both of us.
He’s still in the bedroom, getting dressed, so I’m alone for a moment, and I take this chance to look around his sitting room, noticing and appreciating all his little knickknacks.
I’ve been in here multiple times, but usually not alone, and whenever Cairn is around, my gaze is always on him, drawn to him whether I mean for it to be or not.
On the mantel above the fire are little wooden statuettes, a few hunks of crystal quartz, an amethyst the size of my fist, and bundles of herbs I don’t know the names of.
The walls hold more herbs, these tied upside down, their flowers and blooms still vibrant with color.
I recognize the lavender and white sage, but again, many of the others are unfamiliar to me.
I should’ve paid more attention in Botany 101 . . .
My gaze traces across Cairn’s armchair, and a little smile pulls on my mouth when I remember him sitting there with a steaming dandelion latte—which sounds so good right now.
Maybe I’ll ask him to make me one, and I can enjoy it before the rain stops and we have to head back outside and act like we didn’t do what we just did.
Cheeks tingling at the memory, I glance down at the side table standing next to the couch.
And lying atop it is an envelope and a letter.
My eyes track quickly across the words scrawled onto the paper.
I don’t mean to pry—that’s not my intention—but with each word I read, my chest squeezes a little tighter.
The Columbine Conservatory? Isn’t that on the other side of Wysteria?
I recall visiting it once, with all its beautiful plants and abundant orchards. But that was a long time ago. And it’s also many miles from here.
Is he . . . leaving?
The possible implication hits me hard.
All at once, I’m struggling to breathe. My chest feels like it’s being twisted and wrung like a wet rag, and I reach up to grip my sweater with trembling fingers.
Breathe, Lyra, I tell myself. Focus on something. What can you see?
I tear my eyes away from the letter and stare at the bundle of lavender on the wall.
What can you hear?
The rain patters on the thatched roof, the fire crackles gently, and in the back bedroom, the floor creaks beneath Cairn’s weight as he moves about.
What can you smell?
Smoke. Earth. Rain. That comforting mix of smells that’s distinctly him.
Slowly, the tightness in my chest starts to abate, the racing of my heart slowing to a painful thrum.
This isn’t like that, I remind myself. Not like when she left.
Ever since my mother abandoned me and Papa, I’ve had these moments.
They don’t happen often, and when they do, I can usually calm myself quickly.
When I was young, they used to terrify me—and Papa.
But together, we learned how to handle them, how to ease me back from the panic that sometimes grips my chest and makes my vision go shadowy at the edges.
Hooves clop down the hall, and when I look up, Cairn is standing there in the wide, tall doorway, wearing a fresh tunic and trousers, smiling down at me.
I try to smile back. I don’t think it works.
Immediately, Cairn’s face falls, his forehead furrowing in concern. “What’s the matter?”
I don’t mean to glance at the letter on the side table, but my eyes do it anyway, betraying me. And I hear the small surprised breath Cairn takes.
So, he didn’t mean for me to find out.
Why does that make it so much worse?
“I . . . I . . .”
What am I even trying to say? I’m not sure, but whatever it is, the words get stuck on my tongue.
With a heavy sigh, Cairn sinks onto the couch beside me, making the cushions dip and tipping my body toward him. He tries to ease an arm around me, but I pull away. I don’t want to be held by him right now. I want him to tell me the truth.
“The conservatory,” I whisper. “Are you going?”
There’s a flash of pain in his eyes when I scoot away from him, but he masks it quickly.
“I don’t know,” he says, gaze moving from me to the letter on the side table.
“I applied on a whim, but I haven’t heard back.
” His broad shoulders rise and fall with a shrug.
“Didn’t want to mention anything or get my hopes up. It’s nothing official.”
I think he’s trying to make me feel better, trying to make it sound like it’s not a big deal, nothing to worry about.
But it is. Because it means he might leave. Means I might be here, at the academy, for another two and a half years without him.
Why does that make me feel like crying?
I clench my teeth and curl my fingers into tight fists beneath the sleeves of my sweater.
And why didn’t he tell me before? Why didn’t he tell me he applied?
He says it’s because he didn’t want to get his hopes up, but inside me, a voice whispers, He doesn’t think you matter enough to know.
Trying to disguise the discomfort between my legs, I push to my feet, then glance back down at him. “We should get back to work.”
His eyes meet mine. They look confused. But again, he wipes the emotion away before I can dig too deep into it.
“It’s still raining.”
I shrug. “Never bothered you before.”
He blinks, mouth opening but no words coming out.
Then I pull on my boots, yank my hair back into a messy bun, and open the door.
Because I’d rather be outside working in the rain than sitting in here, being reminded of the things that I know will soon be snatched from me.
Like I expected, even this wasn’t meant to last. And even Cairn is going to leave.