Wildflower

Chapter Twenty-Six

My shop feels neglected, cold. Betrayed.

I’ve been away too long, but I’m not here to tend to the flowers.

I shove Will inside and lock the door behind us with the hidden key we keep under one of the flowerpots.

Hopefully we fled from the castle before they could see which direction we went in.

This is the first place they’ll search for us, so we need that head start.

Thank the gods my mother shut all the curtains before she left to stay with Ruth.

I bet they’ve both been beside themselves with worry, but Will isn’t in any condition to be magically sending them updates right now.

“Okay, we need some wards. They’ll be here looking for us soon,” I say, dashing in the darkness for a handful of pennyroyal, a purple leafy flower from the mint family.

I throw down a line of them by the front door before starting on the windowsills.

Flee away, the pennyroyals say, nothing to see here.

Flee. Run. Go away. It’s dangerous, perilous. You don’t want to be here.

Will curls himself into a ball on his knees.

He hasn’t said a word.

“I’m going to run upstairs,” I tell him.

He doesn’t move.

I do the same for the windowsills on the upper floor—in my bedroom, the bathroom, and my mum’s room—hoping it will be enough to keep the guards at bay. For now. Just until we can think of a plan. We just need more time.

Back downstairs, I kneel before Will. The curve of his back is shaking, his head tucked into his chest, and he’s gasping for air against the wooden floor.

I place my hand on his shoulder gently, not wanting to overwhelm his senses.

I’m here. I’m here and I’m not leaving him. He shudders and sucks in a deep breath.

“I think it’s my turn now,” Will says, his voice cracking.

It takes a second for me to understand what he means. We’ve swung, switched places. Me, level-headed and composed, like all those times Will kept cool as I fell apart.

“I’m here,” I soothe.

It’s the permission he needs to surrender. Surrender and break.

Will digs clawed fingers in his hair and weeps.

I sit silently by him as he chokes out sobs that mourn for so much—for the life ripped away from him all those years ago, for the freedom Morgana violated.

For Howell. My own tears drip onto the floorboards.

Never again. I’m never letting this happen ever again.

There’s a sudden bang on the door that has us spooked like an ensnared rabbit.

“Fliss!” Card pounds his fist again and again. “Are you in there? Fliss!”

“You’re going to break down the door,” Bastion warns.

“FLISS? You can’t do this to me! You can’t leave me like this!”

The knocks slam time and time again against the wood.

Neither Will nor I move. He’s petrified, gulping down his tears.

I pray with all my might for the pennyroyals to work.

Please. I push my magic outward and beg the flowers in my shop for aid.

Help us. Please don’t let them in. Please give us this sanctuary.

There’s a soft rustle and a flow of magic in the air. My flowers hear me and obey.

“We should get out of here,” Bash says. “I doubt they’ll have stayed close.”

“But—”

“Babe, come on. You’ve hardly slept recently….”

Their voices fade away.

It’s just Will and me and a cold, dark room of flowers.

He shuffles upright, tears clinging to his eyelashes.

“Howell—” Will stifles.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“H-He—I—”

“Will, it wasn’t your fault. I’m telling you.”

His bloodshot eyes scan my face. If I can say it, then it’s the truth, whether he can accept it or not.

“I keep putting you in danger,” he says. “I keep hurting you. I stabbed you. And n-now Howell. Who next, Fliss? I-I’m—”

“Will.” I push his ash-coated hair back. “I choose to be here. I choose you. You are not hurting anyone on purpose. It is not your fault.”

He reaches across where our knees touch and rests the tip of his fingers where my scar is, where the sword sliced me open.

“There isn’t a day, an hour, that goes by where I don’t curse myself for what I did to you. What I keep doing to you,” he says, a confession of the worst kind.

My heart can’t bear it.

“Stop it,” I beg. “Stop saying that. I don’t feel that way whatsoever. I told Howell it was Morgana. He believed me. He was helping me get to you and he saved my life. What she did was a horrible violation. You are not to blame, Will. She used you. This is on her hands.”

“I can’t…I can’t keep doing this.”

His words carry the weight of five long, lonely years.

I bite down on my bottom lip to stay strong for him, for now.

“I keep trying and—” He shudders. “Every time I just make it worse. They were just rumors before, but it’s true. All I do is hurt people. Bash was right. I should have left like he wanted. It would be better if I wasn’t here. I should have let them take me. I should have let them kill me—”

I grip him so hard my nails dig into his skin.

“Don’t you dare ever think that. Don’t you dare!”

He can barely keep his head up.

“Will. Will, look at me.”

Panic strangles my chest, my throat. How do I save him? How do I pull him out of this?

“They won’t listen. Especially now. They’ll never stop coming for me. You should—” He wraps his fingers around my wrists and pulls me off. “You should go. You should hand me in. You shouldn’t be here. Why did I take you with me? I’ve ruined it for you. I’m so stupid—”

“No. I’m staying right here.”

“Just leave me. Just go.”

“No.”

“You should hate me. I almost killed you. I almost killed Bash. Howell—I’m—”

“Will, look at me.”

He’s choking, unable to see through the pools in his eyes, through the storm in his mind.

“I’m here and I am not leaving you,” I say.

I force his chin up to meet my eyes.

Will holds my gaze for a few watery seconds.

He erupts into tears again, this time falling onto my shoulder and clinging to my back.

I hold him until his sobs retreat, until my shoulder is damp.

It’s what Howell would do after all. Stay calm and stoic, collect yourself to rescue others.

Be a shield, a protector, taking pride in the smallest of tasks, knowing just how important it is to those who need it.

I’ll persevere and bear the weight so Will doesn’t have to. So he isn’t alone.

“Why are we even trying to help them, Fliss? Why are we bothering?” Will asks, muffled into my coat. I sit him upright and wipe his wet cheeks with my sleeve.

“Because it’s the right thing to do. And you are a good person, Will. I will try as many times as it takes, until Morgana faces justice and you are free.”

His shoulders sag, like gravity itself is a punishment.

“They don’t deserve your help,” he whispers. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do. You deserve to be happy,” I say. “I’ll come for you no matter what. I’ll walk beside you for as long as I can. I won’t leave you.”

Will closes his eyes and exhales.

Quieter now, he says, “That sounds nice.”

“I think so too.”

“Stay. Please. I didn’t mean it.”

“I know.”

He leans his forehead against mine, and I stroke his jaw with the backs of my fingers. His grief hangs like a ceiling of wisteria, his sorrow heavy and insurmountable. We sit in sadness, in silence, and soon his tiredness takes over. Slowly, his breathing steadies.

“We should get some sleep,” I say. I don’t even remember the last time we ate, let alone got some rest. The cottage seems too distant a memory now.

Will lets me pull his feet toward me. I undo the laces of his boots and tug them off with ease.

He’s a doll in my hands, a numb shell. When I have him standing, I kick off my shoes too and, being familiar with my house in the dark, have no trouble leading him up the stairs where each floorboard squeaks under our socks.

At the landing, I push open the door to my room.

It’s not somewhere I spend much time, preferring to be downstairs in the shop, in the greenhouse, or outside in the sun, so it’s not much more than a simple square, a floral curtained window on the left, a pine wardrobe in the corner next to a small table with a vase of dried red geraniums, a candle, and a citrus-flavored lip balm Card gifted me for my birthday on it.

I pause and consider the bed that I’ve spent the past weeks in, tossing and turning, obsessed with thoughts of Will.

Now he’s here and mine, and yet it’s no time for celebration, no place for passion.

Lethargically, Will peels off his jacket and I follow suit, dropping the coat he lent me to the floor. He flicks his fingers, and a stir of magic cleans away the ash and dirt bathing us. It’s the tiniest brush of a spell, but it has Will swaying with lost balance.

“Okay. You need sleep,” I say.

“Don’t leave,” he croaks, voice raw from crying.

“I’m not going anywhere without you,” I say, and pull back the cotton bedsheet, nudging him forward.

Will settles down with his back against the wall.

As protected as he can make himself. I clamber in too and nestle myself to his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft against my skin.

I tuck my hands under my chin and close my eyes.

There’s barely a hint of his chamomile scent left, but my flowers, this room, him, they smell like home.

Safety. Will wraps his arms around my back, pulling me close for comfort, and intertwines our ankles.

He leans his nose on top of my head and breathes deeply, his muscles slowly losing their tautness.

Like loose-leaf tea soaking in hot water, the adrenaline of the day thaws.

Distant clangs of armor accompany the nocturnal nightly shuffles, but we can pretend they don’t exist just for tonight. Just for now, it’s me and him.

After some time, Will stirs. His fingers twitch against my spine, and the buzz under my skin diffuses like spilled wine.

“The wedding is tomorrow…” he says. “I doubt the queen will let it be canceled after all the effort she’s put in.”