Chapter 1 #2
She was always apprehensive when he’d invite her places, especially his home. She tried to clear her mind. She had to stop thinking about him this way. She was to marry him. It’s what her father wanted. It’s what she wanted.
His arm around her waist slid down, finding her hand and lacing their fingers together. Such a loving act that she should have swooned over. Instead, she shivered. She did not like to be touched, and all Barth ever wanted to do was touch her.
“My father—” she began her excuse.
“I will not hear such nonsense, Paeonia. I know you care for your father, but he wants this union—blessed it weeks ago. I know he will not mind. I can come in with you to ask him if it makes you feel—”
She shook her head. “No,” she almost shouted.
He appraised her, his brow furrowing. When they edged to the short path that led to her cottage, he released her before spinning her to face him. He caressed her jaw, his skin smooth and soft, his fingers hooking in her hair to keep her focus on him.
“Paeonia,” he whispered delicately. “I love you.” A phrase he had been saying for the past few weeks.
She should say it back. She should say it back. She should say it—
“It’s okay,” he chuckled softly. He had reassured her multiple times now that she need not say it back. Not until she truly meant it. He was often benevolent like that. His thumb stroked across her cheek, and her fingers clawed into her thighs through her skirts. “Tomorrow?” he asked again.
Her light-green eyes held his gaze, nodding.
He grinned, taking her in for a final moment longer, then placed a kiss on her forehead.
He turned to leave, the sunset an orange-gold on the horizon, creating a halo over his sun-stained hair.
His lithe shoulders stood tall, his hands sliding into his clean trouser pockets. So very handsome.
She quickly sprinted up the stone path, barging into her tiny cottage, shutting the door with a shallow breath.
She hadn’t the faintest idea how she was going to survive a lifetime with Barth.
Every time he touched her, she felt sick.
She hated herself for not desiring him. All his words were so sweet, so loving.
He was who she should be with. It wasn’t fair to him that she recoiled inside.
But now she feared she had let it go on for too long to be able to cut things off. And her father, he’d be heartbroken.
She wondered if she’d feel like this with any man touching her, not just Barth. She prayed for one day to grow accustomed to the feel of him. To desire him, even. She just needed a little more time.
The wood floorboards creaked beneath her feet. She swayed into the kitchen, breathing deeply as she reminisced about the book she was halfway into to try and drown out the thoughts of Barth.
She took the hot pot of water that hung over the hearth and poured it into her mother’s old teacup.
She hadn’t known her mother, but she still felt connected to her when she used her things.
She instinctively brushed her hand over the golden locket that hung around her neck.
Her mother’s. She had never been able to open it to see what was inside.
It had been swollen shut ever since her father bestowed it on her, and she didn’t want to break it.
She was too paranoid about letting anyone else try to do it for her.
Perhaps she’d have enough extra coin one of these days to bring it to the jeweler.
It acted as her only connection to her mother. Myths had said that a person’s most prized possession carried a fraction of their soul within it. She hoped the locket carried her mother’s.
The dried flowers swam in the steaming water, swirling around and creating a faint hazy hue.
She reached into the cupboards for her honey pot, dealing a dollop into her tea.
She filled her father’s teacup with salted herbs, ones that would relax his joints.
She plopped a sugar cube in hers then took the cups and strolled into the next room.
Her father hunched over tattered parchment in the library, a quill behind his ear, ink staining his fingertips.
While they possessed no magic, her father’s apothecary and alchemy studies raised the eyebrows of the villagers and townsfolk.
Any semblance of magical abilities, or connection to otherworldly creatures, had been outlawed ages ago with the fallout of the fae.
She knew the fae were just a legend, a cautionary fabrication that some people seemed to still believe in.
When they called Paeonia a witch, they might as well have been spitting in her face.
She placed his tea on the top of a stack of books beside him and then moved to sit by the window, her cup warm in her palm.
Blooming ivy crawled up the cottage’s exterior and wiggled its way in between the cracks of the windowsill.
She smiled, the frame surrounded by various flora that seemed keen on seeking shelter in the warmth of their home.
Her father huffed, throwing his hands out in a wild gesture.
“What now?” Paeonia asked.
He started, his knees hitting the stack of books, threatening to topple over. “Oh, Nia. I didn’t hear you come in.” He quickly steadied the makeshift table and pushed a hand through his all-white hair. He took the tea into his palms, letting it relax the stiff joints.
She grinned. “What are you working on now?” She gestured her head toward the scratched ink spread out in waves before him, taking a small sip of her tea.
He slurped the hot drink, then set it back down before grabbing his notebook to show her.
“See here.” His finger traced the drawing of a moonstone toadstool.
“I’ve collected multiple samples of the same mushroom, but each time, its strength varies.
Sometimes they’re meek and small, some withered and dried, and some blooming and nutrient-rich. ”
She tilted her head. “But isn’t that just how the fungi are? Depending on where they grow, what She has to offer them, they grow at different strengths?”
“Ah”—he held up a finger—“curious, I wrote it off as that too. But then I discovered something odd. You see, I had two in clay pots, both with the same soil from our garden. Both under the same dim lighting. They should grow the same, would you not expect that?”
She nodded, a slight breeze wisping into the room through the cracked window and splitting her blonde curls.
“One I had left on the left side of the cottage, by the garden. And the other on the adjacent side, on my bedroom windowsill. And after only a day, the ones on my window withered away, turning to dust.” His eyes were wide with mischief and discovery.
Paeonia furrowed her brows. “And the one on the other side?”
“Why, it sprouted two new ones! All boisterous and healthily vibrant. The opal top shining so bright, it began to glow in the dark.”
She couldn’t restrain the laugh as her father spoke with such joy. “And the academy will be impressed, no doubt.”
His smile sank.
“What?” she asked him.
“I’m afraid this isn’t anywhere near enough research to win their favor.”
“But, Father, how will you—?”
Paeonia’s words were cut short as her father coughed several times.
She grabbed his tea to help his dry throat, spilling hers onto the rug in the process.
He coughed into his hand and opened his fingers to take the teacup before shuddering back in disgust, clenching his fist. But Paeonia had already seen the withered petals that bloomed in his palm.
Petals that stirred in his chest and sputtered out his mouth.
Her lips parted, and her father tried to distract her. “It’s nothing, Nia.”
“It’s getting worse.”
He itched his arm where she knew an odd bark-like scar had begun to appear late last week. The sickness was moving too fast. “I’ll go to town tomorrow and ask Lady Rela—”
“Barth’s parents offered dinner tomorrow evening. I hope it’s the night,” her father said loudly over her, ignoring Paeonia’s worry. “Cannot believe my little girl is going to be swept away.” His eyes shined wistfully.
She pulled her satchel back out, digging in it for the salve she purchased today. “Father,” she breathed, “I don’t have to marry him. If you’d only let—”
Her father shook his head. “Nia, I need to know you’re going to be safe. You need to be protected. Cared for.”
She let out a mirthless laugh, handing him the tiny bottle of balm. “You say that like you’re leaving.”
Silence.
He gently took the bottle from her.
“Father?” She sat forward, reaching for him. He let her take his weathered hands in her soft ones, his eyes slowly rising.
“I don’t think I have very long.”
“But you’re working on a cure,” she added frantically.
“Oh, sweetheart. I’d have to first find the cause before even thinking about how to cure it.
And stars know I’ve tried.” He looked over to the slew of encyclopedias and indexes that lay scattered open to different flora.
A vial on his small elixir table bubbled, a puff of mist weeping out the top of the glass.
A page beside her was left open to an ink drawing of a peony, and Paeonia’s eyes welled.
Her father’s thumb swiped gently under her eyes before the tear could escape, still clutching the salve. “I need to know you’re going to be okay.”
She swallowed sharply, her tea now soaking through the rug. She bit her lip, shoving the sobs back down, and nodded.
He let out a relieved breath, but the distress still sat heavily on his features. He may have wanted to hear this from her, but she knew he never did like forcing Paeonia to do anything she didn’t want to. Yet she always would. Without question.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, feeling guilt from lashing out when all her father wanted was peace of mind that his daughter would be okay when the sickness finally took him.
The toadstools on the windowsill puffed with spores, a soft shimmer in the evening sun. The windchimes hanging from the ceiling clashed together in delicate harmony. The moonflowers and nightglories would soon bloom in the moonlight.
Paeonia helped her father apply the salve, the itching subsiding as he slouched back in his chair, staring at her like he might never see her face again.