Chapter 8
8
“B RIELLE .”
The waspish tone slaps me into wakefulness. Harper stands before me, hands on hips, mouth pinched as though having recently sucked on a lemon.
I straighten from where I dozed off at my table, wincing from the twinge across my back. The refectory clamors with scraping utensils, clattering bowls. It smells of boiled greens and the hot, bubbling sweetness of fresh porridge.
Harper continues to glare at me expectantly. “What?” I hiss. Conversation is prohibited during meals.
“What is it Mother Mabel ever saw in you?” A cant of her head. “After that embarrassment with your disappearance, she must regret trusting one so pitiful.”
Harper spews so much vitriol it’s a wonder plants don’t wither in her presence. And here I sit, receiving blows like a pelting rain.
Disappointment and shame hit me all over again. I have worked tirelessly for this opportunity, and within a day, my hopes were dashed. Mother Mabel will not select me as an acolyte this year. Perhaps never. I am not worthy. I cannot be trusted.
“Well?” Her toe taps with irritating calm. “Will you answer me, or will you stand there like a dolt?”
Meals are a time to reflect on ourselves, deepen our faith, strengthen our principles. But Harper will not cave. She will pry every desired emotion free. She will hammer blows until I sunder.
“I have nothing to say to you.” My voice rings with surprising strength. “The fact that you insist on belittling me when I am already brought low reveals just how weak your character is.” Indeed, in all the years I’ve known Harper, I have seen no growth from her, only stagnation.
Her eyes flare. She seems to grow four inches in the next breath. “Weak character. How ironic. According to Isobel, your lies got you into this mess. Your deceptions will only make it easier for Mother Mabel to choose me to become the next acolyte.”
“No matter who Mother Mable chooses to ascend, it won’t stop me from continuing my studies,” I press. “Acolyte or not, I will deepen my relationship with the Father.”
Thankfully, the bell peals, signaling the end of breakfast. Everyone files out the doors to begin their morning chores. Since I’m assigned clean-up duty, I remain in the hall, where the smell of boiled vegetables lingers. A single novitiate to clean the mess of one hundred women, normally a task shared by four. But I will not complain, just as I did not complain yesterday. Stacks of bowls coated in food fill three large buckets. One by one, I drag them to the kitchen, where I fill a massive tub with water from the well and begin to scrub each dish and utensil clean.
I move slowly, for that is the only way I can move lately. Three sundowns, three sunrises, yet my back still aches fiercely. Any slight shift drags my dress across the bruised flesh. I expected the pain to subside, but it has worsened over the passing days.
It takes two hours to wash the dishes, clean the tables, sweep the floor. That done, I head upstairs to exchange my slippers for boots, shuffling slowly to combat the lightheadedness. I’ve an hour before I’m needed in the fields.
Once inside my room, I move to the mirror. My hands shake as I unbutton the front of my dress, then my chemise, peeling both from my clammy skin and exposing my back to the looking glass.
Deep violet curdles the surface of my skin. The bruises’ outer rings have cooled to a mealy gray, but the centers rage a livid red, nearly the same shade as my hair. I flinch in remembrance of the lash, seven painful welts received.
With an unsteady breath, I rebutton my undergarment and adjust my dress. Mother Mabel has barred me from the infirmary. In the Book of Grief, Arran traveled across the highlands for twelve days enduring the pain of a festering sword wound, and lived. According to our Abbess on High, I, too, will withstand this suffering.
I’ve revealed nothing of what transpired in the sacristy. I spend my evenings in the forge, away from prying eyes, but my smithing comes at a cost. I can only shape the metal for so long before my back spasms and the tools slip from my grasp. Before my disgrace, the abbess had trained me after evening Mass each week, but she did not show up for our knife-fighting lesson yesterday. Another punishment?
As I depart my bedroom, something creaks behind me, and I glance over my shoulder. The window shutters swing open, revealing the ferocious black waters of the strait in the distance, a line of soot ground into the space between the cliffs and the Gray’s rocky shore. A scented breeze drifts inside: spring.
My slow, drudging pulse begins to climb. Something flashes in my periphery, and it is a wonder I’m able to rein in my ire as I spin around to face Zephyrus.
“Get out.”
The West Wind arches a brow. He practically glows with health, curls ashine, skin kissed by a rosy hue. His face, however, maintains its strange, angular appearance, even without the swelling and gore. “Is that any way to greet a guest?”
“You are not welcome here,” I snap.
His lips curve. A dangerous thing, that mouth, able to snarl and croon in equal measure. “So there is fire within you. I was wondering when it would manifest.”
That he treats my anger like a performance to witness prods my fury from its doze. Even my red curls spring from their confinement.
Moving to the door, I engage the lock. I cannot risk anyone discovering him here. Then I whirl around to face him again. “I will not repeat myself. I wish never to see or speak to you again. Leave.”
Closer he sidles, padding with all the quiet of a barn cat. White tunic, rough trousers, weathered boots. I am remembering the way his garb, drenched from the water of the spring, clung to his frame. I promptly shut the door on such thoughts.
“I admit, your anger confuses me,” he muses, with a softness that borders on uncertainty. “I thought you would be pleased. After all, I gave you the opportunity to learn the answer to the question closest to your heart.”
“You assumed incorrectly.” I never should have agreed to accompany him, but I allowed myself to dream.
He stops at my desk, skimming a hand over my copy of the Text, open to the Book of Truth—last night’s reading. The West Wind, standing in my room, stealing the air. A god. I cannot believe it.
“What has changed?” A calm inquiry, yet tension simmers underneath.
Nothing, and everything. I have glimpsed things—terrible, lovely, yearning things—in a world that is not for me.
“It is simple,” I state. “I will not be returning to Under, nor will I associate with you in the future.”
“You have not answered the question.”
“Because it is none of your business.”
“Is it not?” His hands slide into his pockets. If only I could read him better. “Tell me why.”
I consider it—saying no . “Should Mother Mabel learn of my visit to Under, I could be cast from the abbey. Should she learn of our association, I absolutely would be. Thornbrook is my home. I will not risk it.”
Strangely enough, this last statement seems to weaken whatever barrier exists between us. It lessens the intensity rolling off his shoulders, the stiffness of his posture. It quiets him momentarily.
“Did you know that time passes differently in Under?” I ask.
He ambles to the window, plucks the sprig of dried lavender from the sill and twirls it between his fingers. Sunlight marks a pale bloom across his cheekbone. It smooths the patchy quality to his tanned skin. “I was aware,” he remarks. “Under decides what length of time passes below, whether it is slower or faster compared to aboveground. But I did not take it into consideration. I am used to working alone.”
Yet I told him how important it was to return to Thornbrook before dawn. What is the truth—these words, or his actions?
“You promised I would be back in a timely manner.”
He sighs, as though this conversation is an inconvenience, and returns the lavender to its spot on the sill. “What can I say? I lost track of time. What is a few more hours, really?” This next pause is decidedly more bitter. “Even if I wanted to leave, I could not have in that moment. Pierus called for me, and the power he exerts over my name dictates that I must submit. If he demands I sit submerged in a river for seven hours, unclothed, then I am helpless to resist. The closer in proximity I am to him, the stronger the compulsion to obey. I am, in all ways, his puppet.”
I cannot quite hide my distaste. It sounds like an excuse to me. “Maybe it didn’t matter to you, but it mattered to me.” Then, quieter: “You lack much care, Bringer of Spring, when it comes to thought for others.”
A silence descends. He appears as though he wishes to speak, yet remains oddly mute, his posture hunched. Very well. I will waste no more breath on someone so lacking in humility. “You have overstayed your welcome,” I inform him, though he was never welcome to begin with. “I insist you leave at once.”
“There are things I wish to say to you, Brielle. I had hoped you would at least allow me that opportunity.”
Enough of these games. If Zephyrus will not leave, then I will.
I’m nearly to the door when he catches my shoulder and unknowingly places pressure on my bruising. A cry of pain cracks out of me as I recoil.
Zephyrus drops his hand, startled.
A hiss punches past my clenched teeth. The throb migrates up my spine, digging deep into muscle, bone. I shuffle sideways to put more distance between us. His gaze drops to where my hand curves around my shoulder, sheltering it from his touch.
“You are injured?” Too quiet.
I do not respond.
He steps forward.
I step back.
Zephyrus’ eyes darken, and a discomfiting thrum of energy courses through me. He smiles so readily and weaves such pretty lies, but something lurks beneath that facade, and it is not as mild as I had assumed.
“What happened?” he demands.
“That’s my business,” I state. He will take nothing more from me. I will not give him the satisfaction.
A rough hand drags through his curls with leashed patience. He tucks his tongue into his cheek, the look of a man considering a situation from all angles, examining responses and discarding them, all but one. “Be that as it may,” he continues with willful obstinacy, “I have a responsibility to you. A debt.”
The West Wind will never be satisfied. He will tear into flesh until he hits bone. “You have no such thing. Let me be clear. I aided you in your time of need, and you repaid that debt. We have no further business with each other.”
He eyes me doubtfully. “But was the debt repaid?” Seeing my confusion, he elaborates, “You’re saying you gained the knowledge you sought? If I recall, you did not appear particularly enthused after your meeting with Willow. Why, you didn’t mention it at all.”
I hate how I begin to cave despite my intentions. He knows so much more than me. Thus, he must know best.
“You want to know what happened?” I manage, voice hoarse with shame. “By the time I returned to the abbey, an entire week had passed.” My throat strains as the tears well. “Everyone thought I was dead!”
His expression has frozen into something borderline inhuman. Zephyrus is not mortal, I remind myself. He is something far beyond my comprehension.
“You were punished because you did not confess where you had been. Is that it?”
“I told you I was forbidden to enter Under.” A single tear tracks down my cheek. I wipe it away.
A gust snaps at the shutters, startling me.
“What punishment did you receive?” Zephyrus demands.
“It doesn’t matter.” The penalty was deserved. I strayed. I trusted the wrong person, someone blind to my discomfort. I am beginning to think the Orchid King was correct in his assessment of Zephyrus.
“Brielle.” And now his voice mollifies, stretching slow and languorous as a cat. “I cannot help you unless you tell me what happened.” His mouth tugs, his eyes sparkling. It would be easy to fall into them.
Yet I take another step back. “I did not ask for your help, and I do not want it.”
He hesitates, as if coming to a decision. Then his shoulders slump, and he finally takes his leave via the open window, using the dense ferns clambering up the tower for footholds. “You are right,” he says, pausing in his descent. “I should have kept track of the passing time, but there was much on my mind. If I could explain—”
“You have taught me a valuable lesson, Zephyrus.” Leaning forward, I grip the windowsill, fingers digging into the warped timber. “Never trust a man.”
I slam the shutters in his face.
Later that evening, I sit in bed, journal propped open on my lap. Since Zephyrus’ departure, I’ve struggled to pacify the creature pacing inside my chest. Rather than retreating to the forge, I pick up my quill, my jar of charcoal ink, and scratch at the parchment until the tightness within me eases, my mind quieting. I reflect on Zephyrus’ unexpected arrival, the shock and fury and dismay I’d felt. I parse out the moments of shame. I list all that I wished I’d said to him but did not. I speak to the paper as I would to a dear friend, though I have none.
I write until my hand cramps, until my eyes sting with fatigue and the words blur, until ink smears the parchment, until my spine cracks from hunching over the journal. But alas, I still do not understand why this series of events occurred, why I have received this misfortune. Poised at the bottom of the page, my quill hovers, awaiting direction.
I write, Who am I to question the Father’s plan? and leave it at that.
A sound startles me awake.
It is brief—too brief to know what, exactly, woke me. My room does not harbor its usual amber glow. The candle I light nightly has burned to its wick, and the far wall reflects only the brightness of moonlight on white plaster. The shutters, when I prepared for bed, were closed. They currently hang open, a frame for the forested hills, the darkness of Carterhaugh in slumber.
I lie frozen on my stomach, blankets tangled around my legs. Snagging my dagger from beneath the pillow, I suck in air, preparing to scream.
“I would not recommend that if I were you.”
The scream finds a premature death. It is an age before the strength to reply returns. “I told you not to show your face again.”
“Is my face displeasing to you?”
Conscious of my bruising, I sit up gingerly. “This has nothing to do with your appearance,” I say, scanning the veiled room, “and everything to do with your character.”
“Can they not be one and the same?”
Zephyrus sounds close, but that can’t be possible. I would have seen him move. As it is, I see nothing in the mottled light and shade, no bodily figure or silhouette.
“I’m aware,” he says solemnly, “that I am unwelcome. But I have come to pay yet another debt.”
I’m so taken aback I wonder if this is a dream. “Another?” My fingers twitch around the hilt of my dagger. In the chilly air, my sweat-pricked skin tingles, my nipples drawn to points beneath my thin nightgown.
The West Wind clears his throat. A floorboard creaks to my right. “You were punished and the fault was mine. I can ease your pain if you will allow it. I can right the wrong I have done.”
Cool air floats across my face. In the darkness, I need not be afraid, not on hallowed ground. “The last time you offered to right a wrong, I was punished. Why should I trust this will be any different?”
The shape of a hand imprints itself on my nape, but when I reach back, nothing is there. “Would you believe that I wish to heal the wounds marring your back?”
My ability to respond fails me. I am frozen, a sculpture crafted from bone.
“You are unsettled,” he says. “You need not be.”
There—something moved in my periphery. I spot a shadowed figure detaching itself from the wall near my dresser. Moonlight transforms his eyes into wells of light.
“Lie down, Brielle.”
A new depth enters his tone, a strange, assertive quality, enthrallingly grounded. I feel a compulsion to obey. My limbs twitch in conflict, to stand and put distance between us, or to rest, ease the pain. Lie down , the West Wind orders. Setting aside my blade, I sink into the mattress with a grateful sigh.
A cork springs free of a glass vial. Moments later, a stringent aroma stings my nostrils.
“What is that?” I whisper into the dark.
“A salve made from pearl blossom.” His voice flows along my skin in pacifying strokes. “Highly effective.” He glides across the room, halting an arm span away.
No wonder it smelled familiar. My fingers curl into the sheet. “My nightgown—”
“You will need to remove it so I can access your back.”
I stiffen. “Who said anything about accessing my back?”
“Can you reach your wounds?”
His gaze snags mine, bright with intensity. It is easy to overlook the displeasing countenance, the misshapen nose and awkward features, in the presence of those brilliant, crystalline eyes.
And yet, the daring in him. What he asks violates everything I’ve been taught. Purity: our second vow. “The welts will heal, in time.”
“They will scar without the proper treatment.”
“Then I will live with it.”
The West Wind tosses the vial from hand to hand as he gazes out the window. The starlight is so plentiful it appears to have been poured from urns by the Father himself. “You are awfully quick to accept this punishment. Do you know what I see? Lack of sleep. Exhaustion.” He points to my face, tracing the lines of weariness in the air with contempt. “Though I am not surprised, considering how sterile this room is.”
There is nothing wrong with my room. It holds a cot, a desk, a chair, a trunk at the foot of the bed, and a dresser. Why would I need useless trinkets and finery when the Father fills my life?
“I’m not sure I understand,” I say.
Moving to the bed, he rests a palm flat against the mattress and sinks his weight onto it. The wooden slats squeak beneath the pressure. “Your mattress is filled with old straw. It offers no support. You sleep little because you are uncomfortable.”
“I sleep little,” I counter, “because you have entered my room unwelcome and unannounced.”
“No personal touches,” he continues, motioning toward the plain plaster walls. “You possess not even a book.”
“I have a book.” The Text rests on my desk.
“Not a book to read for pleasure or comfort.”
“The Text comforts me.” It is steadfast, it is true.
“But nothing else in this room does.”
I do not need comfort. I need only the Father. But I do not expect Zephyrus to understand.
“You are denied pleasure,” he says.
I clear my throat and shift to a more comfortable position on my side. “Pleasure is temptation,” I whisper.
“Mm.” A low, curious sound, neither agreement nor disagreement. “Is this what you believe, or what you are told to believe?”
“I do not see a distinction between the two.”
For a moment, I’m positive his gaze has fallen to my chest, where my arm conceals the shape of my breasts, but it is too dark to be certain. “How can you judge pleasure when you have not experienced it yourself? You are not curious?”
This again. “No, I am not.”
He purses his lips, then relents. “Very well.” This near, I smell the rain on him. “If your wounds are not treated, you might always live with this pain.”
My fingers dig into the mattress. It is agony, my injury, though I do not want to admit it. “Give me the salve, then. I will apply it myself.”
“You cannot reach, and you have no one to assist you. Allow me to do this for you.”
My pulse leaps. “Absolutely not.”
“You truly want to punish yourself in this way?”
The question gives me pause. Mother Mabel might consider my sentence just, and I agree, to an extent, but we are armored differently, she and I. The West Wind offers me relief. I question whether I deserve it. “I can’t,” I whisper.
“You can,” he says gently, “if only you say yes.”
I cannot read his expression. “I don’t know.”
“Let me help you.”
My tongue is rendered useless, naught but an awkward chunk of flesh behind my teeth. “No man may touch a Daughter of Thornbrook.”
“You are in pain,” he says. “Pain I have directly caused.” Another step forward, boots quiet. When I walk the room, the wooden floorboards buckle and groan, but Zephyrus—it is as though he weighs nothing at all. “Let me heal you. Let me ease your burden.”
My eyes burn, yet no tears fall. I have been unable to properly sleep these past few nights. Exhaustion has threaded through my skin, piercing every muscle and tendon and bone.
If I were to guide another in this situation, what would I say? Accept the healing for what it is—grace . But I have never taken my own advice.
“What must I do?” I say.
Zephyrus pulls a pair of gloves from his back pocket, slides them on. I blink in surprise, having not thought him capable of such a courtesy. Once again, he’s left me unbalanced. “Unbutton your gown to the waist and lie on your stomach.”
My cheeks sting so hotly I fear I will melt. It is a difficulty I did not anticipate, dragging my focus from his face. “Turn around while I undress.”
He follows my instruction without complaint.
I am but a body in motion. As my mind detaches itself from my limbs, I loosen the buttons running down my nightgown and lie across my bed, the fabric parting over my back, ruined skin exposed to the chilly air.
“You can look,” I whisper.
A soundless step brings Zephyrus to my bedside. My skin tingles from the proximity.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
In my periphery, I watch the hand dangling near his thigh form a fist. “There’s an infection near the base of your spine.” He exhales through his nostrils. “My brother received a similar lashing… a long time ago.”
“A switch to the back?”
“A whip.”
The word stings— whip . With a deep breath, I force down the curdling sensation in my stomach. Discipline is expected in the church, but it has never sat right with me. “How many brothers do you have?” A test, to see if his information aligns with what Lissi told me.
“Three.” A curt response. “My eldest brother once took responsibility for a punishment I should have received, just as you have done.”
Five fingers skim my spine. I flinch, my muscles clenched. Zephyrus wears his gloves, I remind myself. His flesh will not touch mine, though I cannot deny my curiosity of his skin’s texture, its unexpected heat.
“Why should you have received the punishment?” I stare at my desk, the blocky Text, my leather-wrapped journal.
“What does it matter?” he says. “What’s done cannot be undone.”
The sheets sigh beneath my shifting legs. I curl my hand into a fist, tuck it against my cheek. “You sound sad,” I whisper. The sadness must be something he carries, just as my loneliness is something I carry. I understand its weight: a stone around one’s neck.
“Many would argue I don’t deserve the privilege of sadness.”
It is curiously vague, his response. “In times of trial,” I offer, “I turn to the Father. Through my faith in him—”
“Do not speak to me about faith.” He practically spits the words, and I feel the trembling of his hand, pressed to my shoulder. It is so silent I hear the tolling of Kilkare’s town bell ten miles away.
“Do you believe in faith?” I ask softly.
“No,” Zephyrus says. “I do not.”
I’m suddenly cold. Frighteningly cold.
I shove myself upright. “Stop.” The motion tugs on my inflamed skin, and I hiss out a breath.
Shadow eats half of Zephyrus’ face. “I cannot heal your back if you do not allow me to touch you,” he says. Gone is the mischievous, cunning creature I saved from the woods. This version of the West Wind is decidedly haunted.
Pushing to my feet, I snatch the cloak hanging from its hook on the wall and wrap it around my curves. I should have sent him away the moment he entered my room. What was I thinking? Does this faithless immortal hold sway over me, my will? Have I allowed his power to skew my own devotion? But no, I made the decision, however poor, on my own.
“You have overstayed your welcome. Please go.”
Wordlessly, the West Wind places the salve on my desk before taking his leave. “Smooth it onto your wounds, if you can,” he murmurs. “It should nullify the pain by morning.”
The shutters clap shut following his departure. I pluck the glass vial from where it lies beside my journal, lift the substance to my nose. Its harsh odor clears my head. Silly, foolish girl. Never again will I trust a man. Never again will I place my well-being into the hands of one so careless. Let this balm be a reminder. With these scars, I will never forget.