18. Leah #3
It probably shouldn’t make a difference to me, but it’s not like I don’t know about making shitty choices because you feel a responsibility to someone.
“It could be for the best that you waited so long before seeing Strata again,” I say, trying to find words to fill the silence between us.
It’s too heavy and intimate, and I need to create distance.
“I mean, it probably would’ve been harder, watching the version of it you knew disappearing before your eyes, not being able to do anything to stop it. ”
He tilts his head. “You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.”
I chew my lip, because once again, he’s picked up on something about me without even trying, and I don’t think I should encourage that habit by proving him right. Still, I’m answering before I can stop myself.
“My mother had a fantastic garden,” I say. “She liked interesting species. The ones people don’t usually plant. After she died and my father remarried, my stepmother ripped it all up.” I shrug, pretending it doesn’t still sting years later. He looks at me like he isn’t fooled.
“Let me show you something,” he says, and the wording catches me off guard. Let me—as if I actually have the option to deny him. I wrap my arms around my stomach like I can protect myself from the reminder of how messed up this situation is.
“All right,” I say, playing along.
He leads me across the bridge, over a few more walkways, and down a small set of external stairs you wouldn’t know were there unless you knew where to look.
We stop in front of an iron gate, a vibrant collection of flora lying beyond.
It’s the castle garden I’ve glimpsed before from above—I never could figure out how to access it before now.
Syrus opens the gate, and I walk inside.
“I wondered about you reciting those plant names,” he says. “And you seemed to like the botany books in the library. I thought you might enjoy this too.”
Part of me wants to roll my eyes. As if a few books and showing me this place could make up for what he’s done—as if he even wants them to.
Except I won’t deny my heart tightens a little at the sight of it.
It’s beautiful, and not in an elegant, manicured way either.
There’s obviously not been anyone seriously tending to this garden for a long time, and the plants have been left to go wild, crowding in around each other, creeping up the walls and across the paths.
The textures are strange and unexpected—leaves that look soft as velvet next to bulbous, hard pods on spiky stems. My mother would have loved it. I love it.
I move through the jungle, lightly touching some of the plants as I go and breathing in the humid, earthy scent permeating the air. Even in the dim light, the foliage is a riot of different shades. I make a resolution to return in the daytime to examine them properly.
“You know how the fruits here generally have darker colors than the ones in Strata?” I say, pausing by a tree with plump purple berries hanging from its branches. “It’s funny, because you’d think the lack of sun would mean the pigment—”
I stop, realizing it would be ridiculous to talk plant facts with the Lord of Malice. When I glance at him, however, he’s looking at the plants too. There’s a strange expression on his face like he’s never really seen them before.
“No, I didn’t know that,” he says quietly. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Before I left school, I wanted to be a botanist,” I admit, feeling like I need to explain myself. “You can study it at the university in Pax. But life had other plans.”
Before he can say anything else, there’s the sound of footsteps. A pale-faced figure appears at the gate clutching a piece of parchment.
“What is it, Viz?” Syrus asks his chamberlain, reading his worried expression.
Viz glances at me and starts to answer in Cyrax.
I know it’s Cyrax because I can hear the guttural consonants and unusual vowels.
Except, to my shock, I understand almost every word, clearer even than in the dance hall, the meaning coming unbidden into my mind as if it’s a language I’ve known all along.
“It’s a message from the lords,” Viz says. “They heard about the suspension of the snares. They’ve called a meeting.”
“When?” asks Syrus in the demon tongue.
“Tomorrow morning.” Vizmodeus glances up at the ourani. “I mean, today. In about twelve hours.”
I try to keep my face blank, as if this means nothing to me, as if Syrus’s possession of me hasn’t apparently altered my mind so much that it can translate the demon’s language without trying. Is it the start of the deterioration I’ve been waiting for?
“Fine,” Syrus replies as a wave of anxiety squeezes my insides. “We knew they’d have something to say about it eventually.”
Viz runs a bony hand through his disheveled hair. “They obviously want to put you on the back foot with the short notice, but it gets better.”
“What could be better than the other three lords of Infernum being so pissed with me they’re willing to be in the same room together?” Syrus asks sarcastically.
Viz sighs. It’s a stressed, weary sound. “They’re coming to Malice.”