Chapter 2 Paeonia
?PAEONIA
Aharsher winter wind than usual swept over the farmlands, waking Paeonia’s tired eyes as she pulled her dandelion blanket tighter around her shoulders. She sprinkled feed on the icy grass for the baby guinea fowls, their clucks of gratitude muffled as she stared at the rising sun.
Paeonia thought about the academy, hatred unfurling in her chest. She had never truly touched that treacherous emotion of hatred until she heard how they treated her father.
All he needed was funding for his endeavors, searching for a cure.
An illness that was affecting far more than just him.
But the academy didn’t see how wasting funds on a problem that only hurt small townsfolk would benefit them.
She worried they had heard of the accusations that he was a sorcerer and that’s why they refused funding.
She admired the intricate spiral of Ephemeral in the distance, Queen Elysian’s tower a glistening pink, its walls an icy sparkle.
The Lost Queen, they called her. Her mind went sour years ago, and at such a young age.
Paeonia couldn’t help but feel a tinge of empathy, but that was quickly shrouded by the fact that the queen and her court paid no mind to tiny folk like herself.
They were safely tucked inside the ever-growing sandstone walls of the kingdom.
So far, the forsaken—the floral sickness her father also exude—hadn’t reached the inside walls. Hadn’t infected anyone noteworthy enough to become a concern. Likely written off as some malaise from farm work, nothing for those in Ephemeral to worry about.
She wandered back around the house, stopping when she spotted the potted mushroom her father mentioned last evening.
It sat on the edge of the garden that grew and bloomed beneath her bedroom window.
Her father wasn’t exaggerating, the mushroom was strong and large, now littered with tiny sprouts all around it.
Back inside the cottage, she plopped a sugared orange slice into her mouth, huffing through her nose. She still had hope. She always had hope.
By evening time, that hope sparked brighter in her chest. Caught in a daze, staring at her reflection in the moss-lined mirror, her father brushed his hand down her arm.
The small silk moth that had been sleeping on the frame all evening finally stirred, fluttering its sandy wings and wisping past their heads.
She came to and smiled at her father. He looked like he had so much to say.
So many things on his mind, never wanting to burden his daughter—but look where that had landed him.
Maybe if he had told Paeonia sooner that he wasn’t feeling well, she could have—
She cut her thoughts short, frustrated at the pessimism that began to rot within her. That wasn’t her. She grinned and gave a tiny twirl, letting her homemade cornflower dress bellow in the air. Her fingers, on habit, clutched her mother’s locket that sat on her decolletage.
Her father chuckled, admiring her frock. “You seem in a far better mood about tonight.”
Her chest thumped, but she ignored it. “I think I was a bit tired yesterday. I hadn’t slept well.”
He arched an eyebrow, almost like he didn’t believe her, but said nothing more on the matter. He helped her don her coat, the somber blue tone enhancing her pale skin. “That makes me very happy, sweetheart. I had begun to worry I was making a mistake urging you to marry Barth.”
Guilt clawed at her throat.
“Never mind that,” he said like he knew she would panic at any mention of his discomfort. He pulled her into his arms, and they walked down the road.
She waved to the winter wildflowers that grew far beyond the fencing, just starting to sprout as Autumn began to make its leave. Their petals seemed to wink back at her, and she stifled a smile at how gorgeous the foliage was in the evening. Her father hummed as they trailed to the Beaumont’s.
He never saw how the flowers seemed to gleam for her.
Like they grew in her direction, almost as if she was the sun they sought nutrients from.
And she never said a thing about it. She had read about this in one of her father’s books: hallucinating tiny magical intricacies as a coping mechanism for loneliness.
She didn’t think she was lonely, but she no longer had any friends besides Barth. And she only saw her father most days.
When they arrived at the Beaumont’s doorstep, Paeonia took in a weak breath that she played off as nervous infatuation.
When they crossed the threshold, the warmth swamped over them, hurting her nose and turning it red.
The Beaumont’s large hearth blazed brightly, Barth’s aunt tending to it to keep it lit as something cooked in a bubbling pot hanging from the fireplace crane above.
Barth stole her hand, giving it a swift kiss on the back, and she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. She wondered if the sudden switch to the warm air made it appear like she was blushing.
“Pae,” he mumbled in greeting, giving her a small smile.
She hated it when he called her that. No one called her that.
It was a nickname he deemed her with a year or so ago when he returned back to Findale from university.
She thought it must have been because he wanted to have a more intimate name for her, instead of referring to her as the nickname she preferred.
So she never corrected him, only winced.
“You look lovely,” he admired as he helped her remove her coat.
She anxiously fluttered her hands down her dress to smooth it. She had been proud of the dress she made, but now, standing in Barth’s more extravagant home, his clothes tailored and of rich linen, she felt underdressed.
“Thank you,” she responded. “As do you.”
Barth wore a deep tunic, making him sharp and regal. His hair had been pushed back, still messy, but the effort was there. He was indeed handsome, his angular features enough to make most women swoon, and she tried to convince herself to do the same.
Her father made his way to the dining table, already in conversation with Barth’s parents. They laughed at something he said, and Paeonia got a terrible sense of dread. Like they were mocking him. She knew that wasn’t the case. They had been nothing but kind hosts, never judging Paeonia.
Stars, she was being so negative. She’d reprimand herself later for having such awful thoughts.
“Here,” Barth began, letting her take his hand. “I’d like to show you something before we dine.”
She nodded, giving her father a tight smile as they passed.
Portraits of his family hung on the cherrywood walls, the oils themselves costing more than Paeonia’s entire savings.
She dragged her hand along their ornate frames, Barth telling her briefly who was posed in each.
It reminded her of the kind of delicate conversations they’d have when they were younger, before he left for university.
How easy it was between them back then. How much she enjoyed his company.
It wasn’t until he showed a romantic interest in her last year that things became spoiled.
She liked him too, of course, but she never seemed ready to move to the next stage.
When they came to the back hall, a place in his home she had never been to before, he gave her a nervous grin. “I’ve been working on this all Autumn.” He seemed almost bashful as he led her into the room.
Paeonia’s eyes widened as she took in the glass walls and ceiling.
They were in an observatory, and stars, it was filled to the brim with flora.
She stood still, too stunned to speak. There were flowers of all kinds: dark ones, light ones, ones that glowed faintly.
Midnight ivy climbed the walls, their purple blooms on full display.
The floor had been made of riverstones, the smooth gray surface absorbing the outside light and making it shimmer.
Off in the distance, a worker’s bench stood tall with pots and tools laid across it.
It was everything she had ever dreamed about.
“I thought you might like it.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
Paeonia swallowed a breath as she faced Barth. “It’s amazing. I…” She looked at the rare spider lilies draped across the ceiling. “I am at a loss for words.”
Barth’s cheeks turned a dashing shade of pink. “I’m glad.” He admired her as she moved a little farther into the observatory, her fingers touching petals softly, her eyes struggling to take it all in. “I did this for you, Pae.”
She rubbed a carmine flameling stem before standing straighter. “Me?”
He chuckled. “Of course. You’re to be my bride. I thought this might be a betrothal gift.”
She stood in silence.
“I know ladies usually get jewels and gems, but I didn’t take you for the type,” he rambled.
“I can get you some if you’d like, though.
Jewels, that is.” He began to mutter under his breath, “I probably should have gotten you something else beyond just this garden anyway. Damn. I don’t know what I was thinking. ”
She remembered why she had always had an affinity toward Barth. He knew her. He cared for her.
“Barth.”
He looked up, stopping his self-deprecating speech.
“I love it.” She gave him a toothy smile, and he returned the candor.
“So, you accept, then? My proposal?” He closed the distance between them, reaching for her hands.
She nodded. “Of course.”
His hands dropped hers, caressing each of her cheeks before pulling her toward him, connecting their lips. She willingly kissed him back, letting her heartbeat overwhelm her body. Her hands rested on his hips, moving her lips softly with his. He loved her.
She let him push her back against one of the workbenches. Let him roll his hips against her. Let him lift her so she sat on the table. Let him nudge his way between her legs and hike up her skirt.
But then the kiss turned sour. “B-Barth,” she stuttered against him with a small, nervous laugh.