Chapter Twenty-Six Kian #2
I hate that her power has done this to her. If I could, I would take it from her in an instant and replace it with the one she should have—healing. She wants so desperately to do good in this world, and my phoenix would help her do that.
“Can I make you tea?” I ask, and nearly sigh with relief when she agrees.
I add cinnamon and a large dollop of honey, debating whether a trip to the kitchens for a splash of milk is worth leaving her alone.
She removes her phoenix skull, setting her on a small table with quivering hands, and sits in one of the oversized chairs in front of the just-stoked fire, staring at the flames.
Nope, not leaving her. I give her the tea. She takes the cup in both hands and holds it up to her face, closing her eyes as the steam envelopes her. She’s done this before, in moments of stress, and I hope that it brings her comfort.
She is like one of the many counterfeit books on my family’s shelves. They look like their former selves, with strong, colorful spines, but they’ve been hollowed out.
And to think, just hours before, I wanted to unburden who I truly am to her.
How much worse would this be, to know that the man she’s been fucking and teasing and growing frighteningly close to is the same man who stole her community’s future.
When she discovers me—and she will, somehow, someday—she will hate me.
She sips her tea, continuing to stare at nothing. The silence is difficult.
After several minutes, I say, “Would you like to talk?” I keep my voice soft and even, hopefully hiding the desperation I feel to just make her better. “I’m a priest. I’m good at listening.”
This gets her attention. “You are a matched novitiate, not a priest. And possibly the worst I’ve ever met. I’m not convinced you’ll even make full priesthood.” Her words are sharp, but she is teasing. There is even a small hint of a smile at the crinkles of her eyes.
Hope soars through me, and I rush to find the response that deepens that smile. “Would I have matched with a mighty phoenix if I wouldn’t?”
My heart clenches as the hint of a smile disappears, replaced by that horrific blankness.
“The phoenixes apparently have poor judgment.” She gestures at herself.
If the entire order was made up of people like Adela—who roll up their sleeves and work with the dead and in gardens with equal diligence, who are eager to learn and hesitant to use their magic because of a fear of harming others—I would not be here.
There would be nothing to bring down. “Or they know better than the rest of them,” I say.
“I feel like those.” She points to a vase of husks between two of the large windows.
One of the many infuriatingly charming additions of living with Adela is that there are often fresh flowers.
These sad specimens used to be daffodils, but we apparently forgot to add new water, or they just lived out the course of their lives. Now they are little shriveled husks.
I concentrate briefly, and the daffodils come back to their former selves, bright and perky. Like Adela herself. It’s meant to be a gift, something to brighten her dark mood. But I have misjudged, or perhaps nothing can help in this moment.
Her voice full of longing, she says, “What a gift you have been given.”
I put my hand out. She takes it, and I trace my thumb across the soft skin of her knuckles.
“I destroy anything and everything I come across.” She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her free arm around them.
“You don’t destroy everything, Goddess.”
“No? What about the foal? The blackberries? Etana?” She inhales, and it is ragged with despair. “I am a danger to everyone and everything. High Priestess Sarai will be so disappointed in my lack of control.”
Anger flares. Sarai. She’d probably love that Adela has demonstrated her powers again. The woman is an exploiter, and manipulating Adela. Acting sweet and supportive, but undermining her confidence. And again, I cannot warn Adela without tipping my hand.
And I want to warn her. That Sarai is taking such an interest in her means nothing good.
That the high priestess will certainly use Adela and her magic as a tool to hurt and harm, to intimidate ordinary people into tithing more than they have so she can grow her coffers by just one more coin.
A coin that means little to her and would mean the difference between a week of coal for their hearth or milk for their children.
Adela is warm and soft and smells delicious. I want to pull her to the bed and heal this hurt with kisses, sink into the bliss of her body. Push away all her doubt and my excruciating hope and just be fully present with her. In her.
But I cannot.
I let go of her hand so I can move my chair to be right beside hers. I lean over so our shoulders can touch and take her hand back, tucking it firmly on my lap. I’m not sure if the touch is for her comfort or mine.
I do my best to find words that are both soothing and genuine.
“You are a woman figuring things out. You have never done this before. You haven’t trained for it.
We don’t even know what the phoenix is capable of.
” I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss the back of it, then turn it over and kiss her palm.
I kiss each one of her fingertips. “We will figure this out. Together.”
She looks at me with wide eyes full of a hope I want to live up to. “Promise?”
“Promise,” I reply, terrified that I actually mean it.