Chapter 5 #2
Alva blinks, tilting her head. “Your mother?”
“Yes. My mother. Elin Donovan.”
For the briefest moment, something shifts in her expression. Recognition. Panic, even. It is gone in an instant, replaced with the smooth, careful mask of someone used to keeping their voice steady while hiding everything else.
Her reply is quiet, almost pitying. “Elin Donovan has been dead for many years.”
The room tilts. My breath stutters in my chest. Dead? None of this makes sense. Nothing makes sense.
“I don’t…” My voice cracks. “I don’t even know what’s going on.”
Alva’s hand brushes the blanket near my arm, not quite touching. “You have been through too much. There is time to sort it all out, but it doesn’t have to be right this moment. I’ll be back with some broth. Sirona will stay with you.”
She turns to her daughter then, hazel eyes locking onto hers. “Sirona.”
One word, weighted. A knowing look passes between them, and Sirona’s smile falters into something more subdued. She gives the slightest nod, almost reluctantly, before facing me again.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, though my voice sounds far from convincing.
Alva lingers just a moment longer, then slips from the room, leaving me with her daughter, the fire, and a storm of questions I’m not sure I want answers to.
The door barely clicks shut behind Alva when Sirona spins back toward me, eyes bright.
“Okay, so,” she says, already digging into her pockets. She pulls out a pair of thick, worn gloves—cloth, not latex. She tugs one on, then the other, words tumbling out as quickly as her fingers move.
“I know I’m not supposed to talk about it, but I’m just so excited to discover where you’ve been.
Were you in another realm? You had to be.
The portals have been closed for ages. Everyone says it’s too dangerous.
So if you made it through, it must have been quite the epic journey.
When my brother found you in the forest—”
I jerk upright, or try to. “Your brother?”
“Yes,” she says breezily, not missing a beat. “He’s always prowling around out there. Says it’s his job to monitor this place. The Veynar Estate, you know.”
“Right,” I echo faintly.
She nods. “Anyway, when he brought you in, it was obvious you weren’t from here. I mean, your clothes alone—”
“My clothes?” My stomach drops. Pajamas. Tank top. Shorts.
“Oh, yeah.” Sirona waves a hand, utterly unbothered. “We had to burn them. They were practically threads from being singed, anyway. Don’t worry, they’re long gone.”
Her words hit like a slap. My face burns hot. Not only have strangers undressed me, but some guy has found me half-naked and barely coherent in the woods, which means, oh, gods. He’s seen me—all of me, from the sound of things.
Sirona, of course, overlooks my horror. She tugs her gloves tighter and carries on. “I hope you don’t mind these,” she says, wiggling her fingers. “Mother says I’m not supposed to touch you. Something about your magic not being stable yet.”
“What’s wrong with me?” I manage, my voice unnaturally shrill.
She shrugs, casual. “We don’t know. Mother says your magic isn’t safe for us to connect with yet.
But anyway, when you get all your memories back, I bet you’ll have the wildest story to tell.
Or maybe it’s top secret. That’s fine. I love secrets.
Some of my favorite things are secrets, like the family herb blends Mother swears I can never share with anyone.
But she trusts me because she knows I’m good at keeping things to myself. ”
She winks, as if we are already co-conspirators, then disappears into a side chamber, her voice carrying back through the doorway. Water sloshes faintly. She is drawing a bath.
I sit frozen on the bed, legs sliding shakily over the side.
Her chatter buzzes in the background, but my mind is spinning too loud to keep up.
Some random guy has found me in a forest basically naked.
My mother is supposedly no longer alive.
We are all speaking a language my mother insisted was long dead.
Three days, they say. But if my mother really is gone and has been for quite some time, it has to be longer. And magic. They all think I have magic.
I drag in a breath, pressing a hand to my chest. Except…
I feel different. Stronger. The ache that crushed me before is gone, replaced with something more.
My skin hums faintly, as if energy moves just beneath it.
My legs feel steadier, longer somehow. Taller?
No, that is impossible. I shake my head hard.
Too hard. This is all too much and too weird.
Sirona breezes back into the room, cradling a cluster of small glass bottles against her chest. “Do you want herbs in your bath?” she asks brightly, lifting them for me to see.
The bathing chamber is as inviting as the bedroom, but in a different way.
The stone floor gleams, warm beneath my bare feet, and a freestanding tub sits in the center, carved only to cradle exhaustion.
A small window high on the wall lets in a spill of light, enough to paint the space without giving me any glimpse of what lies beyond.
Sirona is already scattering herbs into the steaming water, her braid slipping forward as she leans over the rim. The scent rises immediately—sharp and floral, mingled with earth and smoke. Calming and intoxicating all at once.
“There,” she says with a grin, straightening. “Perfect. Fresh towels are here. Soap and oil are over there. I’ll just be outside if you need me.” She hesitates, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Unless you need my help to undress?”
Heat rises to my face. “No. I’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself.” She winks, then slips out, the door clicking shut behind her.
For the first time since waking, I am alone. I let the dressing gown slide from my shoulders and catch sight of myself in the mirror above the basin. I freeze.
It’s me, but it isn’t. My eyes seem sharper, brighter than I remembered. My brown skin has a faint luminosity, like I’m catching the light differently. My hair falls long around my face, shadowing me the same as always, but something about the way the auburn curls frame me feels other.
I turn, fingers brushing down my ribs, and catch the dusky stain of bruises across my back and side.
Faint, barely there. But if these are what remain, then the injuries themselves must have been massive.
Bruises like that could not have healed in three days.
Not naturally. They’re lying, a voice in my mind whispers.
It’s been longer. It has to have been. My muscles still hold the memory of running, of strength and motion, but everything feels foreign.
Too solid. Too strong. My body feels rebuilt, while the rest of me feels fractured.
I drag my eyes from the mirror and step into the tub. The water welcomes me instantly, heat sinking deep into my bones, unwinding tension I hadn’t even realized I carried. Whatever Sirona has tossed in, I don’t care. I would bottle it, drown in it, if it means this feeling.
I sink until the water covers everything but my face, let my head tip back against the rim, and close my eyes. And the memories come.
My mother’s voice. Her hands gesture as she says the word tattoo. Something sharp, urgent, breaking through the ordinary.
I sit up, water rippling around me. My fingers rise almost without thought, combing into my hair at the nape of my neck. My skin catches on something rough. I freeze—a scab.
I press more carefully, tracing the raised edges.
It isn’t random—it has a shape. Lines. Curves.
A pattern etched into me. My breath shudders out, and I lean forward, bracing my elbows against my knees, hand still at my neck.
I know this pattern. I’ve traced it with my eyes since childhood, resting on my mother’s wrist as she poured tea, wrote lists, tied back her hair.
The tattoo. The same one burned into her skin is now scorched into mine. The moment my fingers trace the raised scab, bile rises sharply in my throat. My stomach flips, and for a second, I think I might be sick right here in the tub.
Tears should come; my whole body begs for the release, but my eyes only ache, sore and swollen though I haven’t shed a single drop. It makes little sense. Nothing makes sense. I slide lower in the tub until the water laps at my chin. Then I go under.
The heat closes over me, and I open my mouth in a strangled scream. The water swallows it, bubbles tearing past my lips, my chest burning with the effort. I stay down until my lungs ache, then break the surface in a gasp, scrubbing at my face, forcing myself to drag the soap through my hair.
Shampoo foams under my nails, its scent soft and floral, almost mocking in its sweetness. I duck back under, rinsing it away, going through the motions like my body remembers what to do even while my mind drifts somewhere far beyond the room.
The water presses heavy against my ears, muffling everything, swallowing me in silence. It is both a balm and a cage. For a while—minutes? Hours?—I float between worlds, unsure of what is real, when anything has happened, who I even am anymore.
The only thing I register is the water cooling, seeping chill into my skin. Still, I don’t move. A knock startles me. Light, cheerful.
“You still doing okay in there?” Sirona’s voice chimes through the door, chipper as ever.
The spell breaks. I blink and shiver, realizing I’ve been lost in the haze for a long time. My fingers have pruned. My body feels wrung out, trembling faintly.
“I…” My voice cracks, and I force it louder. “I need to get out.”
The tunic is soft against my skin, the pants loose enough that I almost feel like I am floating inside them. Someone has carefully considered comfort. I sit curled in a chair near the fire, broth warming my hands, tea steaming beside me.
Sirona has been talking since the moment I sat down. I have no clue what about anymore. Horses. Cousins. A disastrous attempt at baking bread. Something about a guy who visits sometimes. I’ve tuned out half of it, nodding at the right moments for the rest, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or care.
Sometimes she is flitting around the room, shaking out fresh linens, swapping bundles of herbs, plumping pillows like a hostess preparing for guests. Sometimes she collapses into the armchair across from me, chattering like we’ve been friends for years instead of strangers for hours.
And though my mind is still spinning, though I can’t repeat half the words she’s said, I find myself oddly grateful for her.
Thankful for her relentless positivity, her refusal to leave any silence unfilled.
Grateful that I don’t have to explain, answer, or think because she is doing all the work for both of us.
I sip my broth, letting her voice wash over me.
Then, a sound cuts through it. A voice. Low, male, drifting from the hall beyond the door.
My heart jolts in my chest. I know that voice.
The instant it reaches me, Sirona freezes mid-sentence. Her head snaps toward the door, hazel eyes wide. She smooths her skirt automatically, a flush of excitement brightening her face.
“Oh,” I say softly, pulse skittering. “Is that… the boy you were talking about?”
“Boy?” She blinks at me, surprised, then laughs. “Oh, no. That’s my brother. The one who found you in the forest.” She glances back toward the door, eyes bright with anticipation. “My brother, Lowan.”
The name seems to hang in the air, catching on a Thread in me. And before I can catch my breath, Sirona is swinging the door open.