Chapter 2 #2
“I was fifteen,” Cirian replied with little hesitation.
“After our usual bout in the gardens at the chateau one afternoon, he walked me through the rows of roses. He spoke about how they were his favorite—a rare trait that he shared with his mother—and that he had been waiting for the first blooms of the season. We stayed out in the garden till the sun had nearly set, just watching over the rows and rows of budding blooms. And finally, just as the rays of light spread over the horizon, a single orange blossom unfurled its petals, as if it had heard his words. I told him that I’d never seen its equal.
Without a second of hesitation, he snipped the flower from the branch, cleaning the thorns off the stem before handing it to me.
When I asked him why he was giving it to me, he told me that it was an old custom he’d learned from one of the tutors at the chateau, going back to a time before the First Awakening.
He told me to whisper something I wished for into the bloom, and by the time the last petal fell, the wish would be granted.
“I held onto the bloom the entire train ride back to the Magi City, racking my mind for which desire I would share with the rose. I knew then that I loved this boy, the one who would give me such a gift, who would share those precious moments amongst the buds. I also knew that love had not been kind to my family. My mother once told me that we were cursed, my family. That wherever we placed our affection, only ruin followed. I wanted it not to be true. But by that time in my life, I knew the bitter taste that love leaves in the mouth when it falters. First my sister, then Mama… I wanted to cling to this fledgling joy that made my heart sputter. And so, I gave the rose my wish.”
His eyes held mist as he squared his jaw, lost in the memories of his first love. It was odd, hearing him speak with such sincerity. I had become too accustomed to the layer of snark that surrounded him at all times. This was something vulnerable. Something raw.
“What about you, Bastien?”
I blinked, finding him watching me now, an amused grin spreading across his features.
“What about me?”
“How did you fall for dear Toto? Or, if you’d prefer, I could offer a round of guesses. Though, to be forthwith, all of the ideas I have are rather crass.”
I rolled my eyes. His sincerity was short-lived.
“It wasn’t quick,” I said as we started once more down the hall.
“There was an attraction at first, sure. But that was merely physical. Tobias had built a layer of walls around him by the time we’d met.
It took some time to get a glimpse of the man beneath all the bravado.
But he offered glances here and there. It was those glances that kept me coming back for more.
I don’t think I could tell you the moment it happened.
It was the culmination of so many little things piling up around me until one day I woke up and realized I saw him everywhere I looked. He’d worked his way under my skin.”
“He does that,” Cirian said with a chuckle, pausing as we neared another blank wooden door. “Not to change the subject, but we’ve arrived. They’re keeping Malachi through here.”
We stood outside a simple wooden door that was rounded at the top. It looked like every other door we’d passed on the way, so I studied the stone walls surrounding it, looking for some evidence as to how Cirian knew which was the correct one.
“As much as I love to watch you struggle with a puzzle,” Cirian interrupted my process.
“I’ll let you in on the secret. I know because of the wards.
Each door in the Cradle has its own wards placed around it that serve as identifiers.
” He reached out his hand to this door, his palm pressing against an invisible force a few inches away from the smooth wood.
“You keep him locked away like a prisoner?”
A shower of sapphire sparks rained from Cirian’s hand. “One could also choose to see it as us keeping an unwell man safe and provided for.”
The door clicked open, and Cirian pushed his hand further, finally making contact with the wooden surface.
It gave way at his touch, swinging inward as warm light poured out from the opening.
The room seemed cozy enough, with a comfortable-looking bed nestled in one corner and a desk in the opposite.
A man sat at the desk, his frame hunched over his work as he scribbled furiously across the page of a notebook.
“Malachi,” Cirian spoke softly. “There’s someone here to speak with you.”
Cirian ushered me inside the room, shutting the door behind us. As we drew closer to the pale man, I picked up on the words he muttered to himself as he worked.
“The crow knows naught what the cat has caught, only shiny things show true. It hates the plot of the sunflower pot, and sees only black and blue.”
I looked to Cirian, but he didn’t seem thrown. He stepped closer, coming beside the man and crouching to his level, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Malachi, can you hear me?”
The man continued to mutter, but his gaze lifted from the scribbling, and he stared blankly at Cirian with hollow eyes the color of robins’ eggs.
“Crows know the way.”
“This is Bastien,” Cirian replied, motioning for me to join them. I moved cautiously, still eyeing the mess of ink spread over the pages of the notebook—and most of the desk. “He’s a friend of Sancha and me. We’d like to speak with you, if that’s okay.”
“Salt is for the wounds. Sugar for the tombs.”
Cirian looked up at me and shrugged. “No one’s been able to get a lick of sense out of him since it happened. There have been a few moments when I think he’s understanding something I say, but then he just spouts off this nonsense, and any progress is washed.”
“What about yes or no questions?” I asked, studying the man as he watched me back, those hollow eyes filled with too much awareness to belong to a man removed of his faculties. “Have you been able to communicate with him using those?”
“We’ve tried, yes. Whatever affliction he suffers from has altered more than his words, unfortunately. If we ask him to nod or shake his head to answer, he’ll thrash his arms or stomp his feet instead.”
“What about these?” I asked, pointing to the intricate pattern of lines that he’d scrawled across the page.
“He picked up the pen after the first day his ailment robbed him of speech. But it would seem he’s lost the ability to write words, so it’s been nothing but unrecognizable shapes.”
“What strange magic,” I muttered, taking out the small leather-bound notebook from my jacket pocket and jotting down a few notes.