Chapter 22 #2
And even though it was entirely irrational, as the oar strokes of our hired sailor brought us closer and closer to the island and the severe square turrets of the Cloisters grew larger, I felt a twinge of unease deep in my gut.
There was no need for nerves. The Order enjoyed a comfortable relationship with the continent’s five monasteries. The Warden visited each of them at least once a year and called upon the Falkeron Cloisters much more frequently than that.
The joke among us Roses was that the frigid, unfriendly climate of these harsh northern islands suited the Warden’s personality better than any other place in the world.
Brigid’s and my private theory was that she had chosen the Blessed Abbot to father her child—the future leader of the Order—and that she frequented the Cloisters because of her and the abbot’s salacious trysts.
Besides all of that, the monks here at Falkeron were renowned for their hospitality. Those intrepid faithful who made the trek here to pay tribute to the gods or to learn from the monks were welcomed, housed, and fed without question.
And yet a chill kissed my nape as our little boat approached the rocky, snow-dusted shore.
“Why do I feel like I’m being frowned at by an especially stern teacher?” Gareth murmured, gazing up at the monastery’s towers.
“Oh, not to worry, sir,” our hired sailor replied happily.
She was a hardy, ruddy-cheeked woman who seemed more at home on the water than most people did on land.
“The Cloisters cut a mean figure there—as they should, I would say, so as to remind us of the mighty power we come from—but the holy fellowship is always happy to receive the faithful. In fact, the Blessed Abbot is quite famous up here for his beef stew. Warms you up fierce on these winter nights.”
“I do love a good stew,” Gareth replied.
“As does anyone with a pulse and a brain, I would think, sir.”
“Indeed.”
As they continued their conversation about stews—which was their favorite, and why, and what ideal “stew weather” was, and various notable stews they’d each consumed—I resisted the urge to reach over and wipe Gareth’s glasses clean.
It had taken us all day to reach our destination, and we’d been lucky; only now was it beginning to snow.
Fresh, fat flakes dotted his fur-trimmed hood, and melted ones spattered his lenses, but he didn’t seem to mind.
I both envied and resented his ability to act as though nothing had changed, as if the world we occupied today was the same as it had been yesterday.
Yesterday, I’d been determined to quash any and all feelings of love for Gareth Fontaine.
Today, no matter how diligently I tried to steer my thoughts elsewhere, I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on my body, his lips on mine, how his voice had fractured around my name as he’d finished inside me. However many days are left to me, I will love you for all of them.
That memory, more than anything else, was the one that made my chest quietly seize up every time I came back to it. I closed my eyes, the harsh sea wind nipping at my cheeks.
What would this mean for us?
Would the days ahead now become even more difficult to bear?
I knew how Gareth would answer that question: What if loving each other makes the days to come easier to bear?
Maybe my years in the Order had made me too cynical, but trying to wrap my mind around that idea felt like trying to grab hold of a wriggling fish. Last night, wrapped up in the haze of my desire, I’d relented in the face of his hopeful logic.
But now, in the harsh light of day, miles away from that cozy little cabin, it was taking all my strength not to let my thoughts tumble somewhere dark and cruel.
I was a fool for letting this happen.
If he really loved me, he would have abandoned the idea forever upon seeing my hesitation.
I was a fool.
We’re at war, and I cannot let anything distract me from my duty.
Someone will kill him, or me, and the one left alive will never recover.
I am a fool.
And so is he.
Our boat softly knocking against the wooden dock wrenched my thoughts back to the present. Gareth was already standing a few paces down the pier, looking back at me curiously.
I hefted my bag over my shoulder, offered the sailor a pouch of extra coin, and lightly jumped up onto the dock with a barely courteous good-bye. The sailor stared after me in wonder; I suspected not many of her passengers chose to eschew the ladder.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” I muttered, joining Gareth. “She’ll remember us now.”
“Given our gorgeous faces, she would have anyway,” Gareth said lightly. “And besides, why does it matter? As far as I understand it, our mission isn’t covert. Unless you’ve neglected to tell me something?”
I bit back a curt reply. “I’ve kept nothing from you. I suppose I’m just not used to traveling like this.”
“With the man you love?”
The words jolted me, but I kept staring straight ahead at the path before us—a tidy switchback that climbed up the grassy slope.
With the man I love. I held the words in my mouth but couldn’t imagine actually saying them.
The very idea of them felt dangerous, even as part of me warmed to hear the easy affection in Gareth’s voice—the foolish part of me, the part I’d carefully paved over with years of stone, the part that it seemed I could no longer ignore.
“Without any Roses,” I replied. “Solo missions are rare. Too dangerous.”
For a moment, Gareth walked beside me in silence. Then he said quietly, “Don’t do that, Mara.”
“Do what?” I said, even though I knew very well what.
“Push me away.”
“All I did was answer your question.”
He came around to stand in front of me. His jaw was square, and his eyes were bright with green fire. “I’m not letting you walk away from this, from us. Not after what we shared.”
I moved past him and continued up the path, my heart in knots. “I’m not walking away from anything. I’m answering your question.”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse, and it’s insulting and unkind.”
“I’m just trying to focus on our mission.”
He blew out a sharp breath. “You’re afraid. And you’re letting it control you. You’re letting it win.”
I stopped abruptly on a square landing of stone and hard-packed sand, upon which stood a simple stone bench.
“Those are my father’s words,” I said, glaring at him.
Gareth cocked an eyebrow. “And I’m not allowed to repeat them?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What do you mean?”
My frustration left me boiling, and I couldn’t decide where to direct it—at him, or at myself. “I told you this yesterday. I told you this is too dangerous.”
“What’s too dangerous?” Gareth spread his arms wide, as if to encompass the entire island. “This path we’re climbing? The northern seas? The Mist? The war?”
He was baiting me. A challenge glinted in his eyes, and the word he wanted to say hung in the air between us, buzzing against my skin. But I couldn’t say it; all my instincts screamed with panic.
And yet my body swayed toward him, pulled by the echo of his hands on my skin, by how easy it would be to let him—let this overwhelming, relentless yearning—take me somewhere I’d never been.
The ache in my chest felt like the pain that accompanied my daydreams of Ivyhill—the home I had lost, the life I’d never had the chance to live.
It was the same desperate, hopeful, hopeless feeling: This is a thing I want. This is a thing I can never have.
I drew in a shaky breath, fighting for control of my tongue. The slopes of Falkeron were not the place for this conversation. “Gareth, I know you think this is all very simple and obvious, and that it’s absurd of me to be afraid, but—”
“Not absurd.” He came to me and took my gloved hands in his. “Just unnecessary. Yesterday I promised I would love you for the rest of my days. Yesterday you agreed to love me too. I know you didn’t say it with your words, but you did with your body, with your every touch.”
“Yesterday I was weak,” I said helplessly. “And I can’t enter the Cloisters, or protect my sisters, or fight a war with all of this whirling about in my head. Which is the problem, Gareth, can’t you see that?”
“No, that’s not the problem.”
I ripped my hands out of his and stepped back. The nerve he had to stand there and dictate what we were, what I felt, what I should and shouldn’t be afraid of.
“You spend one night with me,” I said tightly, “and think you understand my feelings better than I do?”
He gave me an unhappy little smile. “I didn’t say that. But I think I understand you better than you give me credit for.”
“You couldn’t possibly.” It was as though someone was yanking the words out of my gut; I couldn’t stop them, even though I knew they were unfair. “You haven’t been through what I have. You had parents, a home, a life.”
Gareth’s face shuttered. “A home I hated and a life I couldn’t wait to escape.”
I pounced on that, desperate to regain my footing. It seemed that I only ever lost my footing around him—a warning sign I’d ignored for weeks and weeks. No longer.
“Just like every young person itching to get out on their own,” I replied.
“No, not like every young person. My mother—”
“Were you taken from your home when you were still a child?”
He stared at me. “You aren’t seriously doing this.”
The disappointment in his voice chilled me, but I pushed on. “If one day you decided to go back home, you could, couldn’t you?”