Chapter 33
Cairn
I THOUGHT NOT TELLING LYRA about the conservatory was a good thing, a smart thing. They probably won’t want to hire me anyway, so why say anything at all?
But clearly, I made a grave error. Because Lyra is different now, like she’s become a stranger.
As the days and weeks pass, she stops showing up early, and she’s not visited me during the week again.
While she’s here, she’s on edge. I can feel her chaotic energy simmering in the air around us while we work.
And just last week, she accidentally set fire to a bed of purple irises.
If she’d been wearing the gloves I gifted her, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But she refuses.
I was so shocked, so startled to see the flames dancing across the precious blooms, that I hesitated to act.
The flames chewed through everything before I could think to stop them.
And even now, when I pass the bed, with its dead plants and ashy soil, I can’t help but to feel that this is all my fault.
I did something wrong, and Lyra is letting me know—whether she means to or not.
I’ve been gearing up to talk to her, to try to clear the air between us. But I’ve not yet been able to bring myself to try to bridge the gap.
It snowed last night—the first snow of the season—and this morning we’re both wearing thick cloaks to ward off the chill while wielding shovels and trying to clear all the walkways so the afternoon sun can help melt the snow and ice away.
But whenever I draw near to Lyra, she moves away from me. And she does it so smoothly that if I weren’t paying attention, I’d probably not notice a thing.
She’s avoiding me. Even her gaze refuses to meet mine.
My heart squeezes so hard that it makes me clench my teeth.
I have to talk to her. I can’t let this frigid distance between us grow into something that can’t ever be mended. I’d never forgive myself.
I’ve just finished shoveling one of the paths that winds through the garden, and Lyra is finishing up with a path that leads to the big greenhouses. When I’m done, I pause to watch her.
She shovels with a furrow in her brow, her lips pulled into a firm frown.
Against the stark white of the snow clinging to the ground and the structures around us, her red hair is a beacon, so bright and beautiful that it makes me ache to reach out and touch it, to tangle my fingers in it like I did that afternoon on the rug before the fire.
She’s not touched me since that day. And if I thought I was hungry for touch before I met Lyra, now I’m starving.
With a grunt, she hefts a shovelful of snow off the path, then pauses and straightens up, stretching out her back. Her eyes find me, and I’m not ashamed that she caught me staring.
The frown she wears turns into a barely restrained scowl. “What?” she snaps.
It’s just one word, but it’s full of simmering venom.
“Let’s take a break,” I say, trying not to let on how painful each of her sharp glares is. “I’ll make us something warm to drink.”
Something flickers through her eyes. If I’m not mistaken, it looks like sadness. Then she slams the windows in her gaze closed, tearing her eyes from mine before I can see too much.
“No thanks. I’ve got plans this afternoon. Let’s just hurry up and finish.”
I’ve never been struck by an arrow before, but each of her words lands like one, piercing me deep.
I really fucked up. Dammit, Cairn.
Without looking around to ensure no one is watching us, I take a wide step toward her and say, “Lyra, look at me.”
She doesn’t. But I know she’s listening, because the furrow in her brow deepens.
“Lyra. Please?”
The word comes out laced with pain, and she must hear it, because she finally relents, turning her face so I can meet her eyes. But she doesn’t say a thing, just stares at me, the distance between us feeling like it’s stretching into a yawning chasm.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
And I know I’ve fucked up again when anger flickers in her crimson eyes.
Before she can say anything, I hold up a hand. “I’m sorry. I know what’s wrong. You’re angry with me about the letter. But—”
“You don’t have to apologize.” She takes a long breath, then lets it out in a whoosh, steam billowing around her lips. “It’s not like we’re friends or something. And you’ll be leaving soon, so I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
More arrows land true. I’m surprised I’m still standing.
“Lyra, that’s not—”
“Are we done here?” She casts her gaze around at all the freshly shoveled walkways. As the morning sun climbs higher in the sky, the paths are already starting to melt. “Like I said, I’ve got plans, so if we’re finished up, I’d like to go.”
I want to tell her that no, she can’t go. She has to stay here and talk to me, has to understand why I didn’t tell her.
But the look she gives me is so sharp that I know I’d just cut myself on her, would just be setting myself up to bleed.
So instead, I bite back my pain and give her one firm nod. “Yeah. We’re done.”
Her eyes flash.
That was a bad choice of words—and not at all what I meant.
“Fine.” She takes a few steps down the path toward me, thrusts the shovel into my hand, and turns on her heel.
As she whirls to walk away, her smell washes over me, and it reminds me of the morning I woke up beside her, the way the morning light touched her freckled face, the scent that clung to my pillow even days after she’d gone.
But then she’s walking away, boots clipping out an angry rhythm on the stone walkway.
And before I can fix this, can figure out what words will mend the pain I’ve caused her, she pulls open the door to the academy and vanishes into its darkness, leaving me standing by myself in the snow.
Alone. Like I’ve been for so many years. Except now, it doesn’t feel safe or comfortable.
It feels lonely. And it feels cold.
A STONE HAS SAT HEAVILY in my stomach all day, ever since this morning. No matter how busy I keep myself—setting up cold frames in my small back garden, reshoveling paths that don’t need to be shoveled, baking a fresh loaf of bread—I can’t seem to get Lyra’s angry eyes out of my mind.
I’m standing in my sitting room, staring out the window at the moonflowers clinging to the shadows along the edge of the forest line, when there’s a sharp rap against my door.
Immediately, my heart soars, hoping foolishly that it might be Lyra.
But my head knows better. And when I open the door thirty seconds later, it’s not a freckled redhead who’s standing there. It’s the mail carrier.
“Letter for you, Mr. Axton,” he says. He pulls a crisp parchment from his shoulder bag and offers it to me. Without taking it, I know where it’s from. The envelope looks familiar now. The mail carrier narrows his eyes in confusion, holding the letter out a bit farther. “Sir?”
I grumble something incoherent and take the letter from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”
He tips his soft cap to me, then goes on his way. Slowly, I close the door behind him, then stare down at the envelope in my hand.
It’s from the Columbine Conservatory.
And I’m not sure what I hope for it to say.
Do I want them to offer me the job? If they do, what will I decide? Will I stay here, hoping I can cling to the peace I’ve carved out for myself? Or is peace even possible now that my eyes always look for Lyra, now that every flash of red in my periphery has my heart squeezing and yearning?
Or will I leave?
I clench my teeth, muscles along my jaw feathering. Either way, regardless of what the letter says, I have to open it and find out.
But first, tea.
I pour myself a cup, trying not to pay attention to the ache in my heart when my gaze lands on the hand-painted cup that Lyra drank from when she was here.
I push away the image of her sipping the frothy dandelion latte, then smiling when she realized it didn’t actually taste like dirt, as I’m sure she feared.
Shaking my head, I take my tea to the kitchen table, but even then, all I see is Lyra lying back on it, knees spread for me. I promptly snatch the letter off the table and go sit in my armchair instead.
Already, Lyra is everywhere. How is it that she permeated my life so quickly? Like a rapidly spreading plant, she twined her vines and petals all around me, and I feel trapped now—trapped in thoughts of her, in my desire for her.
Maybe I should leave either way . . . Maybe it’d be better for both of us that way.
I sit in my armchair and put my tea on the table beside me. Then I hold the letter in both hands and stare down at it like I might be able to ascertain what it says without having to open it.
The parchment is thick, and whatever is inside feels dense.
If it’s a rejection letter, why waste so much paper on me?
I call to mind what Lysandra said when she came to visit me: They are interested, I can assure you of that. The conservatory reached out to her, was curious enough about me to actually contact her as my reference.
Maybe Milo had something to do with this. He was so excited when we sat down for a drink at Boar and Badger, going on and on about how great it would be to work together again, this time in a professional capacity. And I can’t deny that I did get a spark of excitement at the prospect.
I love my life here, love my job and my garden and my thatched hut.
But there are times when I feel underappreciated.
The students don’t often stop and wonder who shovels the walks every morning so they don’t have to trudge through snow, don’t think about who tends the grounds and cares for the plants that make the campus so beautiful.
But at the conservatory, that might be different.
People visit the conservatory to appreciate the beauty and abundance, and given what Milo said to me, the community gardens would be a place where I could teach others what I know, where I could focus on growing foods that will feed people’s bellies and souls.
Even now, thinking about it makes me warm with excitement.
But Lyra’s face is right there as well. And she warms me in a different way. She makes me excited to wake in the mornings, wondering if I’ll see her. She makes me hungry in a way that only she can sate.
Will I be able to leave her?
I reach for my cup of tea and take a sip. It’s already lukewarm, which means I’ve been sitting here staring at the letter for quite some time. Now the only thing left to do is actually open it.
With fingers on the verge of trembling, I rip through the flap of the envelope, not bothering to reach for my letter opener, like I usually would. Before I can stop myself, I pull the letter free, unfold it, and allow my eyes to track across the page.
They . . . They want to hire me.
Me. A minotaur groundskeeper with so very little to offer. Yet they’re offering me the job.
I read further, and my stomach pinches.
They want me to start this spring, right after the holiday break, which means I’d only have a very limited time left here.
Limited time left with Lyra.
If she even wants to be around me anymore.
I let out a heavy sigh and drop my head back against the headrest of my armchair, then stare up at the ceiling.
And I ask myself, What the hell am I going to do?