Chapter 15 Paeonia #2
Instead of thinking more on the matter, she absorbed the ethereal room.
There were so many plants she had never seen before.
Some were maroon, some glazed pink, some an unnatural blue, some an icy shade of green.
Some sparkled in the low light, some cast a faint smoke, some moved slightly like caught in a breeze.
Her lips tipped into a smile without her control, and she laughed.
A quiet laugh, but a laugh, nonetheless.
The flowers seemed to instill a permanent sense of jovialness into her, stealing away her terrible memory, reminding her that they were here for her.
They’d always be here for her. The soft touch of fur on the fern plant replaced Barth’s rough one.
The beautiful sight of bright flowers blooming took the place of Barth’s scowl, his fit of rage.
Slowly, the room replaced her memory, instilling a sense of wonderment where fear had just lived.
By the time she returned to the entrance, her heart was hammering. She paused, gathering a shaky breath as she braced herself to face him again. With careful fingers, she pushed open the door.
Rowan leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed and gaze distant. The faintest shift in his posture betrayed that he’d been concerned. His eyes flickered toward her, and she quietly closed the door behind her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He grunted in response and pushed off the wall to lead the way. “You’re free to go in there whenever you like,” he added, but the warmth he possessed in the observatory was gone—his voice colder, more remote, as if the moment they’d shared had never happened.
She followed him in silence as they climbed a narrow staircase to the second floor, the air between them thick. They passed a familiar door, its dark wood carved with the image of a rose. The handle was still smeared with that same faint streak of dried blood.
“What’s in there?” she asked, her voice light.
Rowan didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at her.
She hesitated, then tried again, more pointedly this time. “I could ask Castor, you know. But I’d rather hear it from you.”
Her foot shifted toward the door, and the moment she did, Rowan let out a low, warning growl.
“Do not,” he said sharply. “Your key will not work.”
She blinked, startled. “Why?”
He finally turned, his eyes flint-hard. “There is nothing in that room of use to you.”
“Okay,” she murmured, stepping back. She had no desire to argue, not when he bristled like that. The mystery could wait.
The corridor winded ahead, their footsteps the only sound. After several quiet minutes, Paeonia found her voice again—hesitant, unsure.
“Can I…see your room?”
Rowan glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowing. “My room?”
She nodded. His confusion made her cheeks warm, but she pressed on.
“Rooms say a lot about people,” she said softly. “I was just…curious. I’d like to know you better.”
Her voice trailed, fading between them. He knew so much about her—more than anyone ever had. Her thoughts, her fears, the shadows she tried to bury. And yet, she knew so little of him. Only glimpses. Fragments. Nothing that truly mattered.
Rowan’s jaw clenched as he changed directions, straying down a dimly-lit hall.
After several beats, they stood in front of another door with an alder tree.
There were several claw marks scratched on the wood, but she didn’t comment.
He pushed it open and gestured for her to enter.
His body appeared rigid, his jaw more tense than earlier.
“You’re going to be sorely disappointed. ”
A moment later, she understood what he meant.
His room was barren. Far less extravagant than her guest chambers.
He had a large bed with warm velvet comforters atop it.
A dresser. Empty portrait spots on his wall.
Sconces. Torn wallpaper. A window propped open, the hail bouncing off the sill, the cold air sweeping inside, a small puddle forming on the floorboards.
There wasn’t much at all to his room, let alone anything to speak of his character.
Rowan stood in the archway, studying her.
There had to be something in here to explain him more than what she already knew.
She traced a finger along his dresser, nothing on top but a crinkled tunic.
No trinkets or personal belongings. His bed posts had claw marks etched along them, and she bit her lip imagining how they earned their spot there.
She shook her head, now tracing the soft fabric of his bed. It was larger than hers, a bed fit for a king. She almost went to lay on it, the softness of it so enticing. She would have thought Rowan to have a bed hard and uninviting, so she was surprised to find it comforting, clean, and cozy.
She ended her appraisal, mouth dry as she moved to the door.
“Satisfied? Did you learn what you wanted?”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “It's quite depressing in here.”
“I have no need for frivolities.”
Her face sank. How miserable he seemed to live his life. “Not even a flower pot? No small baubles or little relics from your family?”
His hand rested on her back and guided her out of his room, shutting the door. “I don’t bother with material things.”
“That’s a shame. How else will you remember your past?”
His body grew taut. “I care not to remember my past.”
Rowan led her silently back to the grand staircase, careful to stay quite a large distance ahead of her. He spun, and she almost collided with his chest. “I’ll leave you here.”
She nodded, thanking him for the tour, no matter how startling it had been to experience his softer side before being scrubbed with his bristles. He made his way down the stairs with great haste before disappearing around the bend.
It was strange; she almost felt sad to be out of his presence. Almost yearning to have him back.
“Afternoon,” a familiar voice startled her. Castor smiled, donned in his usual armor.
“Hello, Castor.”
She decided she’d try to find a book to read to pass the time since she couldn’t garden with the storm. Perhaps she’d study a floral compendium, maybe stumble upon something to help her father.
Castor followed. “Have a question for me today, sweet Peony?”
She took the steps two at a time, remembering the tomes that sat dusted inside the observatory. She headed in that direction, hoping she could remember the way.
“What’s behind that door with the rose?”
Castor made an odd sound in his throat. “Hm.” He matched her stride. She wondered how he knew what questions she had successfully asked of Rowan, and which she did not.
“I think you already know the answer to that, Peony.”
She glanced at him sidelong. “The paintings.”
Castor gave her a sound of affirmation.
“Why is there blood on the handle?” She knew she had already had her one question, and even so, she hadn’t asked this of Rowan. So she was surprised when Castor answered her.
“It was last entered in a fit of rage. Rowan has a tendency for violence, if you haven’t already taken notice.”
She gritted her teeth, opened the forest-green door, and walked inside. “Care to join me?” she asked Castor, who seemed all too happy to keep her company.
When Paeonia finally left the sitting room after curling up with a book, Castor beside her, playing a game of solitaire, she decided to do a little perusing.
She let herself get lost in the hallways before she heard voices. Whispering voices, just as she did one of the first days she had arrived here. They sounded so clear, yet no one was around her.
“Is this something you do?” she questioned the walls of the castle. “Do you carry voices?”
Unsurprisingly, the castle did not answer.
She followed the trail of sharp sounds before finally spotting a slice of slate skin in the distance. She wasn’t sure which Stoneborne it was, but she approached closer regardless. When she got within hearing distance, she realized they were talking with Rowan.
She rounded the corner, peeking out behind it, Sybil locked under his stare, standing familiarly close to Rowan. Something similar to dread rolled through her. Perhaps Sybil had been a past lover of Rowan’s. That would explain why she was here, in Rowan’s castle.
“She’s not here any longer,” Rowan mumbled. He reached out and brushed a hand along Sybil’s cheek, urging her to look at him. She smiled sweetly, and Paeonia imagined if her skin wasn’t stone, she’d have a pretty pink hue across her cheeks. Perhaps she was a current lover of his.
“I was quiet,” she mumbled. “But I was not blind.”
Paeonia shied away, stumbling back in the opposite direction, her heart racing in her chest. Sybil had no inclination to shy away, to push him off—she wanted the touch.
Questions about how these Stoneborne related to one another—related to Rowan—swarmed her thoughts before she carefully made her way to her room.