Evermore

Chapter 18 Paeonia

?PAEONIA

She spent enough time away from him that she began to convince herself she was the irrational one.

That he was rooted so deeply and innately with loneliness, he would have locked anyone here with him, forcing their company, taking away his burden of abandonment.

Her lips tilted sideways in the mirror, Ren glancing over to her.

Perhaps he even thought he didn’t deserve the company of others, and that’s why he said such vulgar things to her—to push her away.

Perhaps rejection was easier to digest over the notion of a person sulking in his presence, solely because of his presence.

“Yes, well, it’s an unfortunate repercussion from being stowed away for so long.”

Paeonia leaned against the dresser. “But he has you. And the other Stoneborne.”

Ren laughed, patting her hand on Paeonia’s duvet. “We don’t all want to be here. Most of us are not here of our own free will, sweet girl. But there is nothing waiting for us beyond the castle either.” She shrugged. “So, we live amongst the ruins of Rowan’s past. Reminding him of his wrongdoings.”

Paeonia sank backward. “Is it wrong that I feel bad for him?”

Ren straightened and put her hands on her hips. “I think we all do in some semblance of the matter. You must think him cruel,” she spoke, taking a few steps toward Paeonia before resting against her bedpost, “but he’s atoned. Poor thing hasn’t had a happy day in his life.”

“Atoned?”

Ren pursed her stone lips, and it sounded like two rocks rubbing together. “You’d have to ask him, dear. I shouldn’t say much more. Not the most pleasant of stories. And not my story to tell.”

Paeonia’s interest finally piqued. “But he won’t answer me.

He keeps me in the dark, telling me only bits and pieces that just end up leaving me more confused!

He acts so kind one moment, then he’s shouting at me the next.

I don’t understand.” Her words became airy.

“I only wish to understand,” she pleaded.

She was tired. Exhausted. She studied the ring that now sat on her finger. “He hasn’t even said more about the marriage. When does he expect it to take place?” Her heart sank, her chest heavy.

“Now, now,” Ren coaxed, walking over to Paeonia and taking her hands in hers.

Before Ren could attempt to soothe her, Paeonia said, “I think he’s lying to me.”

Ren raised a brow. “He needs you.”

Paeonia pushed away from Ren and paced back and forth in her chamber.

“Yes! So you and Castor have said. But for what? What could he need a stupid little human for? I don’t believe he just needs me to garden.

Just to keep it alive because of whatever affinity I possess.

Something darker lies within his words.”

Ren gave her a tight-lined half-smile.

Paeonia huffed before collapsing back onto her bed, staring at the tattered canopy.

“I told him I’d marry him, if only to save my father.

But I know there is more to this—why would he want to marry me?

” She fell quiet, thinking. “Because he needs me,” she whispered, answering herself, repeating what Castor and Ren had told her.

When Paeonia went to leave her chambers, Ren stopped her.

“You’ll be wanting these,” she told her.

Paeonia hesitantly took what appeared to be something made of fabric from Ren’s hands.

She examined it, quickly realizing it was a pair of gloves, soft lilac in color.

She slid them on carefully, her fingers fitting.

Finally, a pair of gloves that didn’t slide down or bunch up.

“Perfect,” she breathed. “Are these from Castor?”

Ren chuckled. “No.”

“From…Rowan?” How did he know she had been struggling with her hand-me-down pair of gardening gloves?

Paeonia found herself often visited by the Stoneborne. She welcomed their company, but now she was truly convinced that they had been locked here for centuries, all of them a little too eager for her bland accompaniment.

Paeonia tucked her feet underneath herself on a chair in the observatory, Sybil flipping through various books beside her.

“The sheer lack of romance novels in here just shows how tedious men are,” Sybil sighed. She picked a stray book on the table, flipping aimlessly through the pages. “I tell you,” Sybil began, her eyes flickering to Paeonia now and again, “you’d swear men didn’t have a loving bone in their body.”

Paeonia half-smiled, gazing out onto the snowy grounds, flurries sprinkling the air like motes. “You think men to be boring?” she asked.

Sybil threw the book down, another she had no desire in reading, and picked up the next one.

“Why, of course not. They always manage to keep me on my toes with the absolute jarring things they say. They blame it on women being too hard to understand. But really”—she slammed the book on her lap—“how hard is it to understand that a woman clearly making a face of disgust isn’t interested? ”

Paeonia laughed. “So, then, you’ve never…?” She clutched the hot tea in her hand. “You didn’t leave a man behind?”

Sybil’s wild expression turned more gentle—as gentle as features on someone carved of stone could be—her fingers curling on the cover of the book. “No. He died before this ever happened to me. Before I turned.”

“Oh,” was all Paeonia could think to say. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m still healing, but that’s okay.” Sybil seemed to not like the look on Paeonia’s face because she bit her lip before leaning in closer. “He had caught me with a woman once, you know.”

Paeonia’s brows rose in confusion, her face warming.

Sybil laughed, falling back in her seat. “He was mad at first. But then—then he wanted to join. Can you believe that?”

Paeonia’s face went red. “What did you do?”

“I shut him down, obviously. If I had wanted a mediocre man in my bed, I wouldn’t have left him for a woman in the first place.” She scoffed. “He really thought we would happily invite him between the sheets with us? Men, they’re so thick-skulled. Only thinking with their—”

“Afternoon, ladies,” Lord Olivander spoke, thwarting Sybil’s crude monologue.

She let out an audible huff of irritation. “Must you always intrude? I get enough of you as it is. I’m trying to have a conversation with Nia.”

“Not a very proper conversation for ladies to be having though, is it?” He turned toward Paeonia before bowing. “Lady Paeonia.” After she gave him a timid grin, he waltzed into the room and began looking through the bookshelf.

“You men want us to please you expertly in bed, but we are never to discuss what goes on. How ever will we figure it out by staying quiet? Or is it you don’t want us to discuss how terrible it is, only to learn of another woman’s devoted husband, having the grand epiphany that it doesn’t have to be as bad as the man makes it? ”

“My word, Sybil. Do you have no decency?”

Paeonia giggled, sure that Lord Olivander’s face would be beet red if it wasn’t for his gray skin.

“What for? It’s not like it matters.”

Paeonia frowned, looking at her friend longingly, her heart aching.

“If only I was me again, not made of this terribly stiff stone.”

“Ah, yes, think yourself lucky?” Lord Olivander mocked.

“You never know.” Sybil turned up her nose.

“Lucky? How so?” Paeonia asked.

Olivander pulled a book and went to leave, speaking to her over his shoulder. “She thinks she might’ve been lucky enough to find a mate, if only it weren’t for the Stoneborne curse.”

Paeonia tilted her head in confusion, and Sybil’s hand reached for her hair.

“If I could move my hair, you’d see my ears come to a delicate point.”

Paeonia gasped.

“I’m fae,” Sybil mumbled. “Most of us here are.”

Fae, Paeonia repeated in her mind. She tried to keep her features steady, not wanting to show her shock. “I guess I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Well, it’s rather hard to tell when our skin is slate and our hair doesn’t flutter in the wind any longer.”

She looked over at Lord Olivander. “But not all of you have pointed ears.”

“Some of us,” Lord Olivander began, “are only part fae. And sometimes, that leaves us with rounded ears. Luck of genetics, I suppose.”

Paeonia slowly touched her own ear, feeling the roundness. The part that had solidified her in believing there was no possible way she could ever be fae.

Lord Olivander seemed to want to interject again as he lingered in the threshold. “If you had a mate, Sybil, he would have found you by now.”

Sybil stuck out her tongue, and Lord Olivander slid from the room. “Or she,” she muttered in irritation under her breath. “Gods, he acts like he’s above drama, but I’ve never met a more melodramatic male in my life.”

“What does having a mate entail?” Paeonia inquired, trying to piece more together.

Sybil looked at her fingernails as if she needed to tend to them. “Mate,” Sybil repeated, thinking about how to explain the concept to Paeonia. She finally met her eyes. “It is not like your mortal notions of love. It is not a choice. It is not gentle.”

“How do fae know when they’ve found a mate?” This all seemed rather divine, out of reach, impossible. She couldn’t hide the fact that learning more about Rowan’s heritage intrigued her.

“When the threads of fate decide, they bind two souls together so tightly that neither can breathe without the other. It is hunger, ache, madness—an unyielding tether in the marrow of your bones. You will feel them before you see them. You will know them before you speak their name. And when you find them…” A slow smile curved her lips.

“You are theirs, and they are yours. Forever. Whether you want it or not.”

“Wow,” Paeonia mumbled.

“And they can often smell it on one another,” Sybil hummed.

Paeonia raised an eyebrow.

Sybil stroked her hair as if she could still comb her fingers through it. “Yes. We have a keen sense of smell.”

Paeonia nodded. “It sounds tortuous,” she mumbled.

“I wouldn’t say that. I would have killed to find my mate. To have that kind of connection.”

“But that pain—”

“Is worth it,” Sybil finished. “To have someone love you—crave you—that fiercely is beyond human comprehension.” She offered Paeonia a sympathizing smile.

“Meaning no offense. But it is…so much stronger than the way your kind loves. Bolder. Brighter.” Her gaze went distant, lost in the glow of her own words.

“I’m not sure.”

Sybil refocused on Paeonia.

“I think love—without fate pulling the strings—can burn just as brightly. Just as powerfully.”

Sybil grinned. “Perhaps.”

“Maybe even more so knowing it is entirely their choice.” Paeonia picked at her fingers, trying to appear nonchalant as she inquired a bit more. “Do all fae have mates?”

Sybil sighed, standing and beginning to put her stack of unwanted tomes back on the bookshelf. “No. It’s rare. And honestly, it can be quite daunting, because who knows what sick trick fate has in store for you? Could be paired with the fae you hate the most.”

Paeonia lurched, swallowing the dryness that coated her mouth. That sounded terrible. “And how are these mates selected?”

Sybil laughed, distractedly tossing through the books she had gone through previously. “Why, it’s no matter of logic. It’s fate, Nia. Fate determines a fae’s mate.”

“Fate seems to be cruel to me.”

“What do you mean?” Sybil asked from behind the pages of her book.

“My father—he’s cursed with the forsaken.” She took a beat to speak the words she hated more than anything. “He’s dying.”

Sybil met her eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Paeonia. I had no idea.”

She gave her a tight smile. “It’s okay. That’s why I’m here, really.”

Sybil strolled closer to her, sitting on the coffee table beside Paeonia who remained curled upon her settee. “I hadn’t wanted to pry. I figured you’d tell me about your bargain when you were ready.”

She gave her a soft smile. “I’m hoping to find something in one of those terrible books,” Paeonia teased. “Hoping there is some flower or herb in Rowan’s garden that can help my father.”

Sybil tilted her head. “Why don’t you check the Night Market?”

“What would be at the Night Market?”

“There are lots of healers there. Well, self-proclaimed healers. But that’s where all the good stuff is.”

“You think there could be something there to cure my father? To get rid of the forsaken?” Paeonia asked with a tiny, sputtering spark of hope laced in her thoughts.

Sybil pouted. “I’m no herbalist, but maybe. That’s where I’d start, anyway. Even if there’s nothing there, there’s bound to be someone who can help—who knows what to look for.”

Paeonia sprung to her feet. “Thank you!” she gleamed.

Sybil smiled, her eyes mischievous as if she knew Paeonia was about to do something out of her character, and Sybil welcomed the rebellion.

“Anytime,” Sybil said with a cheeky grin.

Paeonia rushed down the hall, stumbling around the corner, chasing her shadow through the castle.

If she could find a cure at the Night Market, she wouldn’t have to marry Rowan. She wouldn’t need him at all.

She moved hastily, like she was trying to outrun the dust in the air that trailed her, her conversation with Sybil reverberating in her mind. She thought back and forth about how to ask Rowan if he’d take her to the Night Market. She figured it might be difficult, given he disliked her so much.

She moved quickly on the first floor, and a door to what Paeonia suspected was a basement opened, Rowan stepping over the threshold.

He donned a dark coat as always, a loose linen shirt underneath, unbuttoned at the top.

His trousers were dark, and his hair was messy.

He seemed a bit exasperated, his forehead sweating.

His eyes found her, and he furrowed his brow.

“I want to go with you to the Night Market,” she said with force, stopping right before him.

Rowan blinked several times. “Why?”

“I want to be there. When it opens.” When he opened her locket.

He rolled his eyes and shoved past her. “No. Have you not learned your lesson?”

Disappointment and anger welled inside her. Stronger than it ever had before. She trailed him. “Then I’ll go on my own.”

He spun to face her, and she had to drag her feet to stop. “You will turn to stone if you do.”

She sighed, her face morphing to a frown. “Please, Rowan. Take me there, and I’ll cause you no more trouble. I’ll marry you without complaint. I just… What if something happens when it first opens, and I miss it?”

“You were already going to marry me without complaint,” he snarled.

She continued her pleading look.

“Difficult,” he mumbled under his breath.

She clutched her skirts in her hands, waiting. Hoping for him to agree.

“Fine. We leave at midday.”

“Okay, I’ll be ready.” She spun to show him her cloak already tightly secured, her boots on her feet instead of slippers.

“You expected me to fold?” he asked, astonished.

A blush rose to her cheeks. “I had hoped.”