Chapter 43
Cairn
TODAY IS THE WINTER SOLSTICE, the shortest day of the year. The campus is quiet, a soft snow is falling, and my fire has been burning nonstop to keep the cold at bay.
Since my conversation with Lysandra, I feel more sure than ever in my decision to take the job at the Columbine Conservatory and leave Coven Crest behind. The only thorn still pricking at my heart is the one with red hair and sharp crimson eyes.
Lyra Wilder.
No matter how I try, I can’t seem to get her off my mind. Even now, as I’m going through the belongings in my hut, trying to determine what to take with me into my new life, I find my thoughts drifting to her.
Even though this will be good for both of us, I can’t shake the feeling that there is so much left unsaid. She didn’t give me the opportunity to explain, and now she’s gone, and I’ll not be here when she returns.
Will she think of me? I wonder as I take hold of the end of the blankets on my bed.
Will she miss me like I miss her? I give the blankets a hard flap, intending to set them straight so I can make the bed, and the movement sends something flying into the air before it twirls to the ground without so much as a whisper.
My brow furrows. I step around the bed, looking for what just fell, and my gaze homes in on a silky red ribbon.
It’s the ribbon that was wrapped around the gift box I gave Lyra, the one she asked me to tie around the end of her braid that night she stayed with me. It must’ve fallen out of her hair, and I’m only just now finding it.
Hooves thumping on the wood floor, I round the bed, then stoop to pick it up. It’s soft against my fingers and brings back memories of that night—memories I’ve been trying very hard to push down, to repress so they can’t rise up to bite me.
But now it all rushes in, along with the truth of my feelings.
I want Lyra. I want her so bad it makes my bones ache. And I’m going to miss her terribly when I leave.
I’m still holding the ribbon, tracing my fingers along its softness, when a knock sounds on my front door.
Immediately, I lift my head.
Who could that be?
I know Lysandra left a few days ago, returning to Wysteria to be with her family for the solstice, and none of the other professors who’re staying here over the holiday ever come to visit me. As far as I’m aware, there’s no one else still on campus.
Enclosing the ribbon in my fist, I turn from beside the bed and walk into the living area. Outside the windows, snow softly falls, and I don’t hear anything except for the crackling of flames in the hearth and the gentle tick of the clock.
My hand wraps around the door handle, and I pull it open.
A shock of red greets me.
Red hair, red eyes, cheeks flushed with pinkish red.
It’s . . . her.
My heart squeezes.
What is she doing here?
My gaze flicks up, over her shoulder. There are tracks through the snow, and in the distance, I see a wagon trundling back down the road toward the Mistwood. But I see no one else.
Just Lyra Wilder. Standing on my doorstep. Looking up at me with snowflakes caught in her eyelashes.
“Hi,” she says, breath steaming out around her mouth.
I swallow hard. “Hi.”
Lyra shuffles her boots a bit in the snow that’s already accumulated on my doorstep, and I realize I’ve not yet invited her in out of the cold. I was so shocked to see her standing there, I froze up. Quickly, I step back, holding the door open.
“Would you like to . . . come in?”
Her smile is quick and beautiful. It cuts right into me. “Please.”
She taps off her boots, then steps into my hut. As I close the door behind her, I’m overwhelmed with the fresh smell of snow and pine, which must cling to her from her trip through the Mistwood.
Lyra removes her cloak and hat—releasing her wild red curls—and her rat, Juniper, pops her head out of Lyra’s pocket. Next, she pulls off her boots, then sets them beside the door. When she’s done, she turns her gaze up to meet mine.
And I have no idea what to say, except for, “Uh . . . what are you doing here?”
Her smile falters a bit. “I have a lot to say to you. Do you mind if we sit down? Maybe have something warm to drink?” She rubs her hands together, bringing a small flame to life in her palms, using it to warm herself.
I watch the flame dance, casting subtle light across her freckled face. And when she smothers it between her palms, it sends up a tiny twirling puff of smoke.
“Of course.” I gesture for her to step into the kitchen. “Any requests?”
“Dandelion latte!” she says as soon as the words leave my mouth.
A smile tugs on my lips, a chuckle slipping out of me. “Okay. I can do that.”
I’m still holding the ribbon in my fist, and I drop it into the pocket of my knit sweater after Lyra turns her back to me to walk into the kitchen.
Lyra takes a seat in a chair, and Juniper hops out of her pocket to scurry around on the table, sniffing for crumbs.
But she won’t find any—one of the ways I’ve been trying to distract myself from thoughts of Lyra is by cleaning everything I can get my hands on.
The kitchen table is so spotless that the wood gleams a little in the gray light coming through the kitchen window.
Lyra pulls her legs up, tucking her knees into her chest and resting her chin atop them.
As I get started on the lattes, gathering up the spices I’ll need, I can feel her gaze on my back.
We’re both quiet as I brew the dandelion-root coffee, and still we say nothing as I sprinkle cinnamon into each cup and drizzle a little bit of honey on top.
I take my time, finding myself hesitant about sitting down and having to look her in the eye.
Why is she here? What does she need to say so badly that she ventured all the way to Coven Crest from Wysteria? And in the snow no less.
Finally, there’s nothing else I can do to the cups except turn and put them on the table. So, I take a steadying breath, then do just that.
“Careful,” I say to Lyra as I set the cup—her cup, the hand-painted one I’ve not touched since the last time she drank from it—in front of her. “It’s hot.”
One of her brows pulls up, and I recognize the humor in her eyes. But instead of joking with me, she just says, “Thanks.” She wraps her hands around the cup and takes a sniff of it while I sit down. She lets out a long sigh. “I’ve been craving one of these since—”
Her words cut off.
Since the morning after we spent our first night together. I’ve been craving something since then too, but not a latte.
“Hopefully it won’t disappoint,” I say softly.
She tips her head at me. “I think that’s impossible.”
The look she gives me makes me wonder if we’re still talking about the lattes.
Juniper squeaks something to Lyra, who then flicks a look at me and says, “Do you have any snacks?” At that exact moment, her stomach grumbles, making her cheeks flush red again. “It was a long wagon ride.”
Grateful for another excuse to not have to sit at the table looking awkward and nervous, I busy myself with cutting a few slices of the bread I baked yesterday and dicing up what’s left of my hunk of artisan nut cheese. I plate everything on a big platter, then return to the table and set it down.
And Lyra’s already done with her latte—apart from the little bit of foam around the rim of the cup.
I blink at her. “Did you . . . drink that whole thing?”
She gives me a big smile. “Told you I’ve been craving one.”
With a chuckle and a shake of my head, I sit down and gesture to the bread and cheese. “It’s all yours.”
Lyra and Juniper immediately dive in, and I take a moment to sip my latte while observing her, still wondering what she wants to say to me.
And what I’m going to say in return.
“What is this?” Lyra asks, her mouth partially full with a bite of cheese.
“Nut cheese. Got it at a little shop in Wysteria. Maybe I could show you—”
Lyra’s eyes widen a bit, and I cut off the sentence before the rest of it can spill from my mouth.
Lyra made it very clear that she’s done with me, with us, with whatever this was. And I’ve spent these last weeks trying to drill that into my head, though I obviously haven’t done a very good job of it.
I clear my throat. “I could . . . tell you the name of the shop, if you want to go.”
The look in her eyes dims a bit, like a candle slowly losing its flame. She brushes a few bread crumbs from her lips—though Juniper is still nibbling around—then sits back in her chair and gives me a look that say it’s time to talk.
“What did you want to say to me?” I ask. Around my cup, my fingers tighten, and in my chest, my heart beats a little faster.
Don’t do it, I say to the little flicker of hope tickling the inside of my rib cage. Go away.
“I—” Lyra bites her lip. Then she takes a deep breath and tries again. “I’m sorry, Cairn.”
The little flicker of hope burns brighter at the sound of my name on her lips. Still, I say nothing, try not to betray anything I’m feeling.
“When I saw that letter, it felt like . . .” She holds up a hand, like she’s searching for the right words, trying to pull them out of the fire-warmed air.
Then she sighs and lowers her hand to the tabletop, fingers curling into a fist. She averts her eyes.
“It felt like I was losing you. And that’s why I started pushing you away, saying the things I said . . .”
I still feel the bite of her words, can still recall to memory the look in her gaze that day we shoveled snow together, when she told me we weren’t even friends.
“And that wasn’t fair to you. I should’ve told you how I actually feel.”
Her eyes are still averted, her gaze focused on the platter of snacks, where Juniper is sitting up on her hind legs, a little chunk of bread held between her front paws.
Lyra lapses into a long silence—long enough that I realize I should probably say something. But my tongue feels like it’s been tied in knots. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I inadvertently hurt her again and she leaves before I have the chance to make things right?