Chapter Forty Home
Chapter Forty
Home
Michal finds a trunk of preserved clothes through a locked door in the corner of the bathhouse. He hid the key to these rooms years and years ago— his rooms, his first home on the isle—likely when he decided to leave them forever.
“This belonged to my mother,” he says now, pulling out an ancient yet remarkably preserved gown. Though the cut is unfamiliar, the dress itself is beautiful in its simplicity: white on white-patterned silk—diasper, I think—with soft ermine lining and a thin silver belt. “Her favorite and her best. She only wore it on special occasions.”
I trail my fingers down the delicate sleeves, swallowing the lump in my throat. It still smells slightly of sage and something citrus, perhaps lemon. “I couldn’t possibly wear this, Michal. Look at what happened to all my other gowns.” I cast a rueful glance toward the bathhouse, where I can still scent the bloody fabric of Monsieur Marc’s creation. “I’d never forgive myself if I ruined this one.”
He shrugs as if thoroughly unbothered, but he wouldn’t have kept his mother’s things all these years if they meant so little to him. “She would’ve wanted you to wear it.”
“Would she have liked me?”
“She would’ve adored you.” A rather wistful smile touches his lips as I nod, tentatively pulling the gown over my head and privately promising to kill anyone who touches it. Not a single speck of blood or smoke or viscera will damage the fabric. “My father and stepmother would’ve liked you too—probably better than me on most days.”
I straighten indignantly. “That cannot be true.”
To my surprise, his wistful smile becomes a smirk. A satisfied one. Pulling on his own strange outfit—a dark tunic with rough-spun hose—he says, “I was a hellion in those days.”
A hellion. Not a vampire or demon or devil, but an ornery little boy spreading mischief in his village. The thought leaves me strangely wistful too. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”
He laughs outright at that. “And I am relieved you didn’t. My father threatened to send me to a monastery when I was twelve—I locked our donkey in a stall with my stepmother’s prized mare just to see what would happen.”
My lips twitch. “And did something happen?”
“Oh, yes. Twelve months later—in the middle of a blizzard—he woke me up at two o’clock in the morning to help birth our new mule. I named her Snje?ana, and she lived until the ripe old age of fifty.”
“ Fifty? ”
He nods, clearly still delighted with himself, and I cannot help it—I laugh too, glancing around hungrily for any signs of Snje?ana here. Sure enough, a mule figurine painted white stands on a shelf near the nightstand, along with a small portrait of a woman with Michal’s silvery hair. His mother. She could be no one else, and my chest squeezes at the sight of her—the softness in her features, the way her eyes seem to sparkle even through the paint, so alike yet so different from her son’s. Rounder. Cornflower blue instead of brown.
She is lovely .
“Adelina,” Michal says softly, as if hesitant to interrupt the peaceful quiet of the room.
Adelina.
I recognize her. I’ve seen her portrait once before—a different portrait—stacked in the shadows of the grotto.
This oval frame, however, sits atop an ancient book on the language of flowers; beside it sits a bouquet of dried poppies and the wooden idol of a horned deity. Other odd trinkets fill the bedroom too: three golden rings—they look like wedding bands—and a knitted blanket, a rosary, a pair of worn leather boots. Did they belong to his father? An uncle? A long-dead cousin? A slow sort of awareness trickles through my fingers as I trail them along a hornbeam rocking chair, wondering at the history behind it. The story.
So many stories.
Michal left them all here, hidden and safe from the dangers of the castle, and abruptly, I wish we could stay here too. This place... it still feels like a home somehow, despite how time and the elements have ravaged it. It still feels loved in a way I’ve never known.
My hand falls away from the armchair. “Death isn’t going to stop, is he?”
At the sound of Death’s name, the magic in the room seems to darken a little. Michal’s smile fades too, and I instantly regret its loss. Just a little longer. The thought aches in that deepest part of me, and—judging from his resigned expression—Michal senses it through the bond. I want just a little longer with you.
Coming up behind me, he wraps his arms around my waist and rests his cheek upon my head, as if we’ve always been like this. As if we always will be. “No,” he says simply. “He won’t stop.”
“We’ll need to lure him back, then,” I manage. “To the grotto.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll need to send him through the maelstrom before he finds Mathilde.”
Michal hesitates this time. Then— “Yes,” he says again.
I whirl in his arms at that, staring up at him as his wariness settles over me. His doubt. Though his dark eyes remain inscrutable as ever—hard, bright chips of obsidian—I can feel him now. He will never be an enigma again. “You don’t think we can do it?” I ask accusingly, though it feels more like panic.
“I think”—he presses a firm kiss to my forehead—“there are very few things that we cannot do together, but with Death...” He trails off, his jaw clenching as he searches for the right words. I do not need the right words, however; I need the true ones, and thankfully, he seems to realize as much, his hands sliding down my arms to clasp my own. “There will be a cost, Célie. There is always a cost with Death, whether or not you realize you’ve paid it.”
The words are too familiar, infuriatingly so at this point. “The witches say the same thing. All magic comes at a price.”
Even Filippa used the expression to disavow our parents.
“For good reason,” Michal says now. “Witches have lived long enough to understand the importance of nature in balance—a balance Death has upset by overstaying his welcome in our realm. Mila was right. Unless he miraculously discovers foresight, this will not end well for any of us, including him.”
Mila was right.
Her name catches like a hook in my chest, painful and difficult to remove. And perhaps I never will. Perhaps that is how grief should be—perhaps, at the end of everything, grief is the cost of love. And I loved Mila like my own sister.
I love Filippa too.
“Perhaps we can force him to discover it.” Swallowing hard, I straighten my shoulders and say, “I might have an idea.”