Chapter 55
Flint
We lie side by side in the long grass, watching each other.
Moonlight gleams silver in Sheen’s pale hair. Slowly I trace the shadows along his cheekbones, his jawline, the curve of his lips, biting back a gasp as he catches my finger lightly between his teeth. He angles his head a fraction, releasing me, violet eyes appraising.
It’s hard to believe there was ever a time I found his beauty vexing – when the mere sight of him didn’t jolt through me like a lightning bolt to the chest.
My next thought vanishes before it has the chance to form as Sheen lets his hand trail lazily across my ribs, over my waist and down my thigh, tightening his grip on my leg before hitching it up and round his hip in one smooth movement.
He rolls on to his back, pulling me on top of him.
His body is solid beneath me. It’s a bit like sitting astride a marble statue, but I’m not complaining.
I run my palms across the hardened contours of his chest, breathe in the scent of fresh snow and cold, cloudless nights, then give in to temptation.
His mouth is just as soft as I remember, sliding slick and hot against mine.
I sit bolt upright, the dream disintegrating. Blood pounds in my ears, keeping time with the thudding of my heart. There’s a chill in the air, but my skin feels flushed, as though I’m running a temperature. I swallow hard, swivelling my head round cautiously.
Sheen is asleep several yards away at the edge of the wind shield, his breathing rhythmic, one arm resting behind his head. I feel my stomach lurch as I look at him – a dizzying swoop followed by a gentle fluttering sensation.
Are those … butterflies?
I shudder, horrified. What is wrong with me?
Scrubbing a hand over the peppering of stubble on my jaw, I glance down to where Spinner is sleeping soundly, her body angled towards mine.
Seized by a jarring pang of guilt, I get to my feet and head for the Creek.
Perhaps a morning swim will help to drown the swarm of accursed butterflies.
Or at the very least it’ll help to cool me down.
The meadow is as pretty as a painting, carpeted by blades of grass as tall and thick as barley.
I strip down to my undershorts and dive into the water, slipping my eyepatch over my head and letting the bracing cold leach the heat from my burns.
Then I tip backwards and float, staring up at the brightening sky.
Since making it out of the Greenwood, Sheen has barely said one word to me.
He’s reserved, distant. At this rate I’d take his scorn over his silence.
I’ve never craved someone’s attention so much in all my life.
Last night I even offered to refill his waterskin, just so that our fingers might brush when I handed it over.
I scoff. This is stupid. Pathetic. Yet I can’t seem to stop thinking about him, and not just in that way, but the way he held me as the world felt like it was closing in.
I used to think that being intimate with someone meant letting them put their hands on me. But this was something else entirely, raw and vulnerable. And that’s not to say that I don’t want his hands on me – I do. Much to my surprise and more than I care to admit.
I’m startled by a sudden tinkling laugh, followed by a splash. I quickly pull my eyepatch back on before Spinner resurfaces, smiling as she winds her arms round my neck.
‘Found you,’ she says, then presses her lips to mine.
Kissing Spinner is very different from kissing Sheen.
I tried not to compare the two, I really did, but it was impossible to keep my mind from wandering.
With Spinner, it’s sweet. Light and playful and easy.
There’s desire there, though not the kind that seems to twist my insides out of shape.
I find her attractive. Endearing. She makes me happy. But Sheen …
‘Flint?’
I blink. ‘Sorry. Still half-asleep.’
‘Sheen sent me to fetch you.’
At the sound of his name, the butterflies perform a series of loop-the-loops. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to squash them flat. ‘And why am I being summoned?’
‘He thinks we should set off. Best not keep him waiting. You know what he’s like.’
Another lurch. ‘Uptight, bad-tempered and miserable, you mean?’
She punches me on the arm. ‘Be nice.’
‘Why do you put up with him, anyway?’ I ask, more out of curiosity than anything. ‘I’ve never understood your friendship. I mean, he barely speaks to you.’
She rubs absent-mindedly at the layer of panstick covering her tattoos, smearing it across her cheek. ‘He wasn’t always this way.’
My heart gives a disjointed thud. ‘What d’you mean?’
Spinner bites her lip, her expression regretful. ‘It’s not mine to share.’
‘Oh, come on. Out with it.’
‘Flint –’
‘Tell me,’ I order.
She looks surprised. ‘Well, all right. But this stays between us.’
I mime sealing my lips shut and tossing the key over my shoulder. But any remnants of bravado are swept downstream as Spinner’s next words sink in.
‘Sheen’s entire family died from the sweating sickness.’
I open my mouth, then close it again.
‘He was only fourteen, and he was all alone. I think …’ She hesitates. ‘I think it haunts him – being the one left behind.’
The butterflies scatter, their wings withering like dead flower petals as they fall through the pit in my stomach.
Words dart across my mind, cutting and cruel.
I can’t imagine you know how to love anyone.
I’d spoken in anger, furious that he’d berated me for following Blaze’s voice deep into the Greenwood, unable to understand his cold criticism, his grim rationality. But I do now. It’s little wonder he never fell for the dryads’ tricks. There’s nobody left to call his name.
All those times I mocked him for being so sour, so morose, when all the while …
You don’t know anything about me, Harglade.
The guilt is almost painful. A well-deserved gut-punch.
‘He and I, we grew up together,’ Spinner says. ‘He might not always be a barrel of laughs, but he’s as loyal as they come. You’ll see.’
I just nod, not trusting myself to speak.
By mid-afternoon the sprawling meadow has melted away and we find ourselves back among the trees. Thankfully, this forest is nothing like the Greenwood. Birds trill merrily, perched on ivy-wrapped branches, and the sun shines brightly through the canopy above.
Only a couple of provinces lie between us and the Waterlands border.
If all goes to plan, and we manage to stow ourselves away on a boat or barge, we should reach the Lagoon in a matter of days.
My heart leaps at the thought of being reunited with my sister.
I picture her there, waiting for me, the Eye round her neck.
As usual, Sheen is striding a little way ahead, his shoulder blades protruding through the thin material of his shirt.
I’m still reeling from what I learned of his family. I want to tell him how sorry I am, how much I wish I could take back every taunting gibe I threw his way.
The silence stretching between us is so heavy it’s almost tangible. Even Spinner’s constant stream of chatter can’t make a dent in it. I wonder if Sheen keeping his distance has more to do with not wanting to hurt his friend than a desire to stay away from me.
At that moment, he slows to a stop, scanning our surroundings.
‘What is it?’ Spinner calls, looping an arm through mine.
His voice is quiet, but I detect a slight hint of triumph in it. ‘We’re here.’
‘And where is here, exactly?’ I say, frowning. ‘Because I know my sight’s impaired and all, but this doesn’t exactly look like the Aquatori Court to me.’
Spinner only grins, her eyes alight with excitement.
‘What’re you up to?’ I ask. ‘What’s going on?’
They share a look. Neither answers me. I’m about to demand an explanation when something coppery-red and bushy-tailed streaks through the undergrowth, darting right between my legs. I yelp in surprise and jump about a foot in the air.
‘This way,’ says Sheen, pointing through a copse of trees.
Warily, I edge closer. In the clearing beyond sits a small thatched cottage.
The crooked windows are made from stained glass and the chimney belches smoke.
There’s a tiny outhouse, and a swing set dangling from a tree branch overhanging the Creek, where a handsome chestnut-coloured horse is munching his way through a patch of reeds.
‘What is this place?’ I murmur, utterly bewildered.
Suddenly the door to the cottage opens. Instinct kicks in – I grab my bow, nock an arrow and take aim.
The figure that emerges is also armed, slowly unsheathing the silver dagger at her hip.
Her olive skin is sun-kissed and unruly curls spill in a dark curtain down her back.
She’s a little thinner than I remember, but there’s a newfound strength to her too – a confidence that wasn’t there before.
I see it in the way she carries herself.
As I lower my bow, my knees almost give out beneath me.
My voice is hoarse with shock and relief. ‘Blaze.’