Chapter 70
Trystan
“What if we ask very politely?” Sage suggested.
“We could do that,” Trystan agreed with her, “if we want them to notify every Valiant Guard within a mile radius that we are here.” She was now wearing the dress Trystan had pilfered from a nearby clothing line. It was just a touch too big for her, but it would do to at least keep her comfortable.
“They’re called the Gardens of Rennedawn—doesn’t that mean entry should be open to all its citizens?”
You’d think, wouldn’t you.
They were hiding behind a bush, just before the garden gates, where they could see a fenced-in field of flowers beyond. Tall trees waved at them from above the walls. “You’re thinking like a good person, Sage. You must think with Benedict’s brain.”
She glared at him. “Ew. No. Can’t I just use my magic to knock the guard out?”
Tempting.
“You could, but we risk there being other guards we’re not seeing. We may need time to come up with a foolproof plan— Sage!”
She’d pulled the dress back over her head, and now, in her minimal undergarments, she was walking toward the garden entrance. “Excuse me, sir?” she asked sweetly.
He could feel a vein protruding from his forehead as his heart thundered. He had to physically restrain himself from interfering, his hands biting into sharp branches as he reminded himself to trust Sage. But not the man he was going to fucking kill for leering at her.
“Oi, miss, you can’t be out here dressed like that!”
Sage laughed, guileless, so convincing that even Trystan might have believed it. The Valiant Guard certainly did. “I’m so clumsy. I was out for a swim, and would you believe it? My dress was swept away. Do you happen to have something I might cover up with for my way home?”
The guard saluted, eager to please the pretty girl asking a favor of him. Trystan didn’t blame the man for tripping away. “I’ll be back in a moment!”
“Take your time!” Sage waved, then turned toward the bush Trystan was holding so tight, blood trickled down his palms, and she bowed, her smile that of satisfaction.
“That was risky,” he chastised, handing her dress over. “He could’ve recognized you.”
“Fortunately, that man’s eyes were nowhere near my face.” She laughed, pulling on the garment, then did a double take when she saw him scowling. “Cheer up.” She patted his face, and that teasing was like a cup of cauldron brew for how it made his heart race. “We’re about to dig up your grave.”
They walked toward the gates and gently pulled them open, wincing at the creaking when they entered, keeping close to the walls.
“How will we know which tree it is?” Sage whispered, and Trystan saw there were many edging the gardens, but only a select few were farther in among the piles of flowers. “What if we dig up a dead body instead?”
He shrugged. “Accidents happen.”
“Trystan!”
They continued walking, Sage trying and failing to push her drying curls out of her face, until she took a misstep on a stone underfoot and let out a startled shriek. “What was—”
“Arthur,” Trystan whispered, his stomach bottoming out as he realized what it was: his father’s headstone, standing guard over the freshly dug grave, the dirt topped with a dozen white daisies. “It’s Arthur.”
Suddenly, it became real.
His eyes burned, emotion pounding into him. The numbness of his loss was wearing off, and what was beneath it hurt. Deeply. “Do you know,” he said, feeling a tear slide down his cheek, “I don’t think I really believed he was gone.”
Sage said nothing, because there were no words that could soften the ache of loss. But she took his hand, laying a kiss to the top of it, warming it, reminding him that there was still life to live beyond the pain overwhelming his heart.
“I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracked, and Trystan found that she, too, had tears streaking down her face. “I’m so sorry this happened.” And she was; he could see it in the quiver of her lip, in the shaking of her hand in his.
“Do you think he would’ve been proud? That I was a Core Healer?” He was baffled at the vulnerability in his words, but Sage had a habit of doing that—wearing him down until the truth was on full display for her.
She grabbed his cheeks, stepping atop his feet to lay a gentle kiss to his mouth, one he returned, eyes shut tight as he savored the taste and feel of her. How every time was better than the last. “I think he was already proud of you for being you, Trystan.”
Her soft smile affirmed it.
“I love you,” he whispered, cupping her cheek.
She grinned, eyes sparkling. “I heard that rumor.”
He kissed her once more—he couldn’t help it—before turning toward the grave. “Let us look for mine.”
“No need,” she murmured, pointing toward a tree not five feet away from where his father was laid to rest. “They put him right next to you.”
Trystan felt the tears burn again, but he moved through them, grabbing the shovel leaning against his father’s tombstone, freshly coated in dirt. It was preferable to using their hands, as they’d originally planned.
He adjusted his grip on the worn handle and brushed a palm across the top of the stone. “Thank you, Arthur.” He swallowed, leaning down until his forehead touched the stone, his tears landing atop the dirt. “Thank you for giving me Evie.”
And with those parting words, Trystan Arthur Maverine turned toward his own grave.
And began to dig.