Chapter Six
I become aware of a warmth against my forehead and the comforting scent of flowers.
Pigeon is next to me, gripping my waist to keep the weight off my ankle, but the dampness of my clothes is no longer causing me to shiver.
Instead I’m dry and warm and— Did we…? Wait, where are we?
Weren’t we just in the forest on her horse?
I’d been telling her about different types of wedding flowers when—what?
“Look who it is,” Willoh Vane says, taking his hand off my forehead. He stands in front of us with that infuriating smirk. “You ended up getting past my wards after all.”
I whip my head to Pigeon.
“This is the healer you meant?” I ask her. My eyes dart back to Willoh in a flutter of agitation. “Wait, your wards?”
“Sorry, you know I can’t take her back to the citadel,” Pigeon says to him. “I assumed someone would be home to heal her.”
“It’s fine,” he replies. “Need any supplies while you’re here?”
Pigeon shakes her head, then unhooks my arm from around her neck.
I wobble and Willoh reaches out to take my elbow.
There’s no other choice than to lean into him as Pigeon steps back and fixes her satchel straps.
I’m blindsided. Has Pigeon heard the rumors that Willoh’s magic destroyed that tree?
He might be the cause of all her problems. How are they friends?
“I need to ride back to the mountain before the light disappears,” Pigeon says, then gives me a reassuring smile. “You’ll be okay from here, Fliss. Maybe invest in some warmer clothes though, and perhaps some proper walking shoes.”
“Thank you, Pigeon,” I say, “for everything.”
She laughs. “If you ever venture this far out of your cage again, maybe we’ll cross paths. I’d best be off. Take care, you guys.”
She jogs into the line of trees, bow already in hand.
I look anywhere but at Willoh. In the center of the wide clearing we’re in, there’s a beautiful pastel-stone cottage with a sloped roof and ivy clambering up the walls, the two floors separated by thick wooden lining.
Beside the front door sits an idyllic bench and, in front of the downstairs window, bunches of chamomile flowers hang upside down to dry in the afternoon sun.
On either side of the gravel path, wildflowers and grass grow freely across the large stretch of land.
It’s overrun with a lush rainbow of flora that carries a bouquet of aromas on the breeze, a sweet tangy cocktail of flowers, but there are certain sections that are tended to, organized.
There’s a wooden stable by the line of trees far to the left, and—is that an herb garden over there, too?
Those look like planters and trellises. I’m intensely curious to further inspect this magnificent garden, but Willoh Vane tilts his head to the side and draws my gaze to him.
“Well,” he says, and quirks an eyebrow at me, “what did you do this time, Princess?”
“Your wards were the ones that made me faint?” I bite back, not letting the topic go just yet.
He shrugs, that hand still tight around my elbow. “Yeah. We like privacy. Usually people avoid the area, but you…”
He trails off and I hear what he doesn’t say.
I blazed right into that spell and knocked myself out.
And now I turn up on his door chilled to the bone and unable to walk.
He must think I’m out of my mind. Well, fine.
I try to put weight on my ankle so he doesn’t have to assist me, and a sharp stab of pain shoots up my leg. I can’t help the wince that escapes.
“All right, up you go,” Willoh says, then scoops me under my knees to hold me in his arms.
“W-What are you doing?” I ask, clutching the straps of my basket and absolutely avoiding relaxing into his chest. A wave of hair falls over his eyes as he glances down at my face, just inches away.
“Huh, looks like you ended up in my arms after all.”
“Put me down!”
“Can you walk by yourself?”
“No, but…”
He carries me toward the cottage with ease. “Is that another magical flower in your basket?” he asks.
“…Yes.”
His laugh vibrates in his chest.
“Well, let’s see the damage,” he says, and a gust of magical wind opens the front door of the cottage.
Before he can carry me over the threshold, a black cat with long fur and narrowed eyes pads out and plonks itself down right in the doorway. It tucks its paws under itself as if to say it’s perfectly comfy right here.
“Mustard, my guy. Really?” Willoh says with a groan of frustration. Mustard doesn’t even blink. “Excuse us, Your Majesty.”
Willoh does his best to step over the cat without knocking me into the doorframe.
The inside of the cottage has my mouth gaping open.
It’s a wide-open area bearing wood-paneled walls strewn with dried plants, various scenic oil paintings, hung lanterns, and, by a door at the bottom of the stairs against the left wall, a well-loved straw cat tower from which Mustard had perhaps just relocated.
At the back of the room, a fireplace and kitchen unit hug the wall behind a large hand-carved dining table, the legs sculpted into intricate rootlike shapes, around which are four similarly engraved chairs, each with a brightly patterned cushion.
Above the gray-stone fireplace, a few unlit candles sit beside small whittled objects—including two cats, a horse, and three figures—and a smaller portrait painting that I’m nosy enough to want a closer look at.
Willoh carries me to the right, through an archway that sections the right side of the room off from the rest. This area is lined with bookshelves full of textbooks and well-organized vials and jars that have interesting wax dots on the labels.
There’s a simple examination bed in the center of the space and a desk with tools reminiscent of those in Creon’s apothecary.
“Where’s Gill?” I ask, tucking my elbows in so I don’t knock any of the vials out of place.
“Probably doing his best to avoid that nightmare on the doorstep.”
“Aw, poor Mustard.”
“Don’t pity him. He’s a demanding old grump.”
“I think he’s cute.”
“Ha ha,” Willoh says sarcastically, then places me on the bed in the middle of the workshop. “You won’t be saying that when he’s scratched your arms to ribbons because you’re one minute late to give him some breakfast.”
“Don’t be late for breakfast, then,” I suggest, and Willoh snorts. I drop my cloak and flower basket to the floor, but not before peeking inside to check on the Odyssa. It’s a relief to see that they’re holding up better than I am.
Willoh straightens the pillow on the bed and motions for me to lie down.
“So, Pigeon said you’ve screwed up your shoulder and ankle?” he asks. I settle back and twist my fingers together. “You wanna tell me what happened?”
“I, um, fell down a cliff.”
Willoh cocks his head to the side. His earrings gleam in the sunlight pouring in from the windows.
“You fell down a cliff?”
“Yeah.”
“Right. Of course you did. How did you manage that?” he asks, moving to the end of the bed.
“Um, I was picking Odyssa flowers on a precipice and…then I wasn’t.”
“Odyssa? You’re really into these unusual flowers, huh?”
“It’s my job,” I say.
So he does know where to find the flower. Card was wrong. It hadn’t been a crazy idea.
Willoh rubs his palms together and whispers a spell. His hands spark with light, and it tightens a knot in my chest.
“What does that spell do?”
“It helps me see your injuries. They kind of…glow,” he explains, then hovers his hands above my right ankle. “May I?”
I hesitate.
“Sure.”
Willoh’s eyes flicker closed as he rests his fingers on Pigeon’s bandages around my swollen ankle.
He hums slightly as he prods and presses the area, gentler than I expect, then checks my other ankle too.
I wish I could know what’s running through his mind.
My knowledge of healing magic is limited to tea blends and certain types of herbs, so it’s fascinating to watch him furrow his brow slightly and know exactly which areas to examine.
“Is healing magic difficult?”
He glances at me, and there’s a small smile at the corner of his mouth. “For some. I can’t just snap my fingers and cure you instantly. Like any magic, it requires concentration and knowledge. You have to gather information before choosing which spell to use—I’m not a mind reader.”
“Is there a spell for that? Mind reading?”
“Thinking of using dark magic, Farrow?”
“No.”
With a soft chuckle, he flattens his hands around my injured ankle and a flood of warmth soaks into my muscles. The pinch of pain eases like getting into a hot bath, and I let out a breath.
“Healing magic isn’t actually my specialty,” Willoh says, double-checking the muscles around my foot with his fingertips.
“This is my mum’s workshop. She says my magic is a blunt instrument and healing needs a softer touch, a steadier hand.
” I’m about to reply that his hands seem soft enough to me, but I catch myself before my mouth opens.
I’m glad that his attention is on my ankle, because a flush surges to my cheeks.
“A sprained ankle is easy enough though,” he continues, oblivious, “and Pigeon did a good job wrapping it up. Just don’t come running to me if you need surgery. Can you rotate it?”
I do as he asks and find that my ankle feels completely healed, if not better than before.
“It’s great. Thank you,” I say. He takes a step around the side of the table to lightly tap my right kneecap, just above the hem of my skirt.
“Do you kneel down a lot?” he asks. “There’s some tension here too.”
“Um, I spend a lot of time picking flowers, so…”
“Do you mind?”
I wave my hand for him to go ahead, if only because I’m curious. And not at all because watching him work is enthralling. A sentence I probably couldn’t say out loud.
“So, you and these flowers…” he begins.
“What about it?” I ask, very aware of the defensiveness in my tone.
“You’re really willing to faint and fall down cliffs for your customers? Do they pay extra for that?”