Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
I wait until the sun is shining high in the sky before knocking on Alaric’s chamber door the following morning.
After such an eventful night on the mountaintop, I figured a good night’s rest would do us both well.
Plus I needed more time than I cared to admit to prepare for his razor-sharp looks and cutting remarks.
Alaric won’t be happy to see me. Which is fine. I don’t give a fig what he thinks. I do, however, need him to open up and trust me, which means I need to extend another olive branch. A much larger olive branch.
One heavy enough to crush me if things go awry.
“Alaric?” I call out, trying to ignore the worms of anxiety writhing in my stomach. If this plan was a grave mistake, surely Rowenna would intervene?
Like she intervened with Von Nevus? the new needling voice inside me argues.
Rowenna’s methods with Von Nevus were undoubtedly flawed, but her intentions were noble.
She was willing to do anything to take Soren down, and she expected me to do the same.
Her sky-high expectations were nothing new.
My sister always pushed herself to be the bravest, boldest, shrewdest version of herself, and she expected the rest of us to follow suit.
She knew how to draw out potential we couldn’t see in ourselves.
It’s one of the things I admired most about her, and I know she’s pleased with me now, for uncovering the secret of the gemstones and developing a plan. Her plan.
Why give her all the credit? the meddlesome voice persists. Not every brilliant idea is Rowenna’s.
“Alaric?” I knock again. “Are you in there?”
At last, the door creaks opens, and Alaric fills the frame.
He looks even more exhausted and exposed than he did last night on the mountain.
Surprisingly, this has less to do with his chest, which is, of course, bare, and his low-slung pants, which fall scandalously below his hip bones, and more to do with the beaten-down look on his face.
I have the strangest urge to reach out and comfort him—until he opens his mouth.
“What now?” He drags a gloved hand through his messy hair. “You’ve decided to blackmail me, haven’t you?”
My hackles instantly rise. “Why would you think that?”
“What else could you possibly want?”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Then why are you here?”
I pull a deep breath in through my nose and exhale slowly. “I wanted to make sure you were okay after last night… And to thank you for looking out for my safety, despite my belligerence.”
His scowl doesn’t budge. “Is that all?”
Is that all? I almost shout back. I’m throwing myself at your feet, bridging ninety percent of the gap between us. Would it kill you to come ten percent?
“No, actually, that’s not all,” I say through a rictus smile. “May I come in?” I try to step forward, but Alaric braces his hands against the doorframe.
“Whatever you have to say, you can say it out here.”
“What if it isn’t something I want to say but rather show you?” I poke my finger into his chest.
When he jerks back with surprise, I push my way inside.
Alaric’s rooms are a mirror image of my own.
A four-poster bed stands to the right of the door, and his bathing chamber branches off to the left.
A sizeable wardrobe, flanked by dressing tables, dominates the space between, and a few armchairs are arranged around a cold hearth.
But where my room radiates color and warmth from the gemstone walls, Alaric’s space is cold and gray.
At first I think it’s because his walls are made of harsher, more masculine stones like onyx and obsidian.
But as I venture deeper, I realize it’s because there aren’t any stones set into his walls.
Not anymore. Every gemstone has been cleaved away, leaving deep gouges and unsightly scars in the bedrock.
A shiver moves through me as I picture Alaric furiously swinging a pickax, taking out his rage and frustration on the walls since he can’t unleash them on his father.
“You can’t just barge into my rooms!” He stomps after me.
“Get dressed. I have something to show you in the solarium.”
Alaric stands there gawping like I hoped he would, giving me the opportunity to make my way to his chest of drawers.
Unlike young Alaric, who had to steal the apricot gemstone I saw in his memory, grown Alaric rightfully has the power to move the earth, which means he must have unfettered access to the stones.
His gaudy bejeweled jackets and chains seem like the most logical place to keep them—something he wears every day, hidden in plain sight.
“I can’t believe you don’t know how to dress yourself without a valet,” I mutter under my breath as I yank open the drawers.
My eyes quickly scan his collection of extravagant jackets for inlaid jewels the color of blood, flesh, or bone.
Then I trail my fingers across the top of the dresser, assessing dozens of decorative chains that range in size and splendor, from simple links of silver to diamond-studded strands of braided gold.
Curiously, all of Alaric’s accoutrements feature only crystal-clear diamonds, cerulean topaz, and jade green.
“Stop pawing through my things!” Alaric yells.
“Then kindly dress yourself so we can go to our solarium.”
He steps between his drawers and me, arms folded and expression defiant. “What if I don’t want to get dressed?”
“You’re acting like a petulant toddler, but if you prefer to garden in loungewear, that’s your choice. Just don’t blame me when your underclothes get filthy.” I turn on my heel and march toward his solarium door, which is much less hidden due to the desecrated walls.
“You’re taking me to garden?” Alaric asks, jogging after me.
“That’s the plan, if you stop throwing tantrums.”
“I’m not throwing tantrums,” Alaric grumbles as we step into the blinding light and heat.
I say nothing, letting his whiny declaration prove my point.
I cross to the nearest planting bed, filled with the healing herbs I’ve been growing for Cloudia—none of which have done a bit of good—and drop to my knees in an open stretch of dirt. I pat the soil beside me and gesture for Alaric to join me.
He holds a gloved hand to his chest with exaggerated shock. “I’m allowed to touch your precious planting beds?”
“Get in here before I change my mind,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
But Alaric stands his ground. “Why now, when you were clearly against this just a few days ago? What’s changed?”
“Everything,” I say softly, and it isn’t wholly a lie. “I didn’t know we shared a similar loss. That you’re just as captive bound to Soren as I am…”
I allow my gaze to tentatively wander up to Alaric’s, but instead of grateful understanding, I’m met with a pop of bitter laughter.
“I don’t want your pity.”
“Good. Pity would imply I feel something for you, which I don’t. Now, get in here before I change my mind. And take off those frilly gloves. I promise you won’t die if your hands get dirty.”
Alaric steps into the planter, careful to avoid the knee-high lavender and balsam, and eases down beside me. He doesn’t remove his gloves, but I let it go with a sigh and shake of my head.
“So, what will you be allowing me to watch you grow?” He tries to sound aloof, but I can feel his body vibrating with excitement beside me— and he doesn’t even know what I have planned.
With a dramatic flourish, I reach for the basket of bagrava fruit, which has sat untouched in the corner since my arrival, and place it between us.
Alaric’s gaze immediately darts to my face, and the way he’s blinking at me, lips parted with surprise, makes my stomach do an absurd little flip.
I clench the basket tighter. “I thought we’d grow this.”
I expect Alaric’s face to bloom with delight, but because he lives to make my life difficult, his features harden. “You didn’t want me to watch you grow ordinary herbs, and now suddenly you’re willing to do this?” He shakes his head. “It’s too much. You swore you’d never grow bagrava in Vanzador.”
“That was when I thought you were a complete monster,” I say.
“And now what? I’m just a partial monster?”
Instead of answering, I take a plump purple fruit in my hand and make an incision around it with the tip of a trowel. Then I pull the halves apart to reveal clusters of seeds nestled within like a pomegranate.
I hold one half toward Alaric. “Take some.”
He sputters and stares at the fruit. “Are you sure?”
Once again, his childlike wonder makes my stomach flip-flop.
“I wouldn’t have invited you here if I wasn’t certain.” I wave the bagrava half in his face.
After one more deep breath, Alaric digs his fingers into the flesh and collects a handful of seeds.
Red juice drips from his creamy leather gloves and onto the dirt, turning it black.
It looks like he recently murdered someone, and I almost point out this “proof” of the blood on his hands.
But then images of Besnik’s body sprawled across the banquet table bombard me, and I press my lips firmly back together.
“They’re beautiful.” Alaric gazes down at the shiny seeds, tipping his hands back and forth so they catch the light. “Like tiny jewels.”
It’s the perfect comparison—and makes for a perfect trade. A glimpse of my bagrava for his gemstone triad.
“Help me plant them,” I say, showing Alaric how to press his thumb into the damp soil, drop a seed into the hole, and cover it with the proper amount of dirt.
“Am I doing it right?” Alaric asks as he makes a line of careful thumbprints. “I don’t want to ruin anything.”
I give a haughty flick of my hair. “I’m Tashir’s most powerful master gardener. You couldn’t ruin my work if you tried.”
Alaric chuckles, and the deep, rumbling sound steeps in my belly like warm tea. And the feel of his hands, even through his gloves, as I press my palms to the ground and encourage him to place his hands over mine, makes me gasp.