Chapter 23 Paeonia
PAEONIA?
Anger fluttered in Paeonia’s chest as she sat in the observatory the following evening, that stupid ring back on her finger.
A candle lit beside her, flickering in the reflections cast on the windows, lighting the page of the book she had been reading for the past thirty minutes.
She had yet to take in a single word on the page, her mind drifting elsewhere.
She couldn’t help but lose herself time and time again, replaying what Rowan had done to her in the gardens.
She hated herself. She hated him. But mostly, she hated how much she had wanted him to follow through with his threats.
She scoffed, her hand tensing around the pages.
What was wrong with her? How could she possibly want Rowan’s touch after everything he did?
After all his harsh and crude words. After his salacious intent to make her think he had multiple lovers.
Why did she grow to care for him just a little bit more with each passing day?
She always imagined herself with a kind man.
Someone soft and gentle, like her. But someone who could also take care of her.
Her fingers brushed over her eyebrows, her head beginning to throb.
Rowan was none of those things. Well, perhaps he could take care of her, but that wouldn't be enough—couldn’t be enough.
Paeonia had always recoiled from touch. Specifically men’s advances.
She didn’t like it. Had never liked when someone felt they had the right to put their hands on her without asking.
But she would never do more than inwardly cringe.
She never told them no. Never corrected them.
Because she knew she’d be in the wrong. She was wrong for shying away from such innocent touches.
How rude it would be if she had asked her father’s friend not to touch her back as he passed her.
Or how the woman in town had engulfed her in a hug when she heard about her father.
They did nothing wrong. It was Paeonia who was wired oddly—wrongly.
Then why did her heart race when Rowan’s fingers softly danced over her thighs? Her thighs! He had touched her so intimately, so much further than anyone else ever had. Even Barth hadn’t stroked his hands quite that intimately on her before. And yet, Rowan’s was the touch she welcomed.
She was losing her mind. He had called her “Pae” multiple times now, after she had told him how much that nickname bothered her.
He called her “witchling” after she confessed to Barth cursing her out that night he proposed.
She wanted to be furious, to be keeled over with hatred.
To despise him. To feel nauseated at the thought of Rowan.
But her chest had hummed when he called her those things—her heart had fluttered.
She was worried she might grow fond of those nicknames, might actually begin to crave him calling her such things.
She clutched her locket, letting her head fall back against the headrest. Something tickled her ankle, and she leaned forward. A small, flowering plant that sat alone in a pot had climbed toward her, gently caressing her ankle. Had she done that? Did the flowers move to comfort her?
Something else tickled her neck, and she peered over her shoulder, a large leaf from the towering plant behind her extended to graze her skin.
Her hands warmed as she opened her palm, the locket glowing.
She quickly undid the clasp to better hold it.
Her mouth gaped, and then her locket sprung open.
She jolted backward, the leaf caressing her further, and she let out a tiny squeal. Her magic had opened it!
Her magic.
The locket glowed, and she leaned in closer to see what lay inside.
She was surprised when it wasn’t a note or some otherworldly relic.
Instead, tucked into the soft metal, was a single flower petal.
It was a soft pink, still vibrant with life.
She studied it closer, trying to see if she could tell what flower it belonged to.
Disappointment regretfully lingered in her chest as she took the petal between her two fingers. A petal. That was what her mother had left her. Her shoulders sank as she shut the locket, rubbing the petal, staring at it. She dropped her hand, and the locket fell into her lap.
“What do you have there?” a deep voice asked over her shoulder.
“Stars, Rowan,” she said, clutching her chest in surprise.
He rounded the chair to sit across from her, his eyes downcast as he appraised her, his gaze lingering on her closed fist.
“I opened the locket,” she whispered.
He nodded. “And what was inside?”
She sighed, holding the petal between her fingers to show him.
“I don’t understand,” she said, defeated when Rowan remained silent.
“Once I learned this was a relic, I was sure my mother would have left me something.” Her eyes fluttered as she tried to search the air for meaning.
“I thought she’d have cared enough to—” She didn’t want to wallow in misery so she shook her head, trying to accept the fact that her mother had left her nothing.
“It’s from a peony,” Rowan finally said.
She blinked at Rowan a few times before examining the petal again. She laughed for not noticing immediately, placing the petal back inside the locket.
“Perhaps,” Rowan began, “your mother didn’t leave you the locket. Perhaps she never intended to gift it to you.”
Paeonia’s lips turned downward.
“Perhaps she wore it to carry a part of you around with her.”
“But… I guess I always thought something more meaningful might be enclosed in it. Something to connect me to her.”
“Not everything has some life changing meaning. She died suddenly, no?”
Paeonia nodded.
“She didn’t do this to spite you. This was her locket, and I’m sure she’d have given it to you in time, but she carried it around to have you with her.
She didn’t intend to lose herself. Not everything plays out how we’d like.
You’re more than a fae relic. You don’t need some magical charm to give your life meaning. ”
She looked away, staring out the dark windows. She had to accept that this hadn’t turned out to be some big revelation.
Rowan stood, forcing her gaze on him. She swallowed, feeling almost trapped.
He reached for her hand and took the locket before moving behind the settee.
She remained frozen as he gently brushed her hair to the side, his fingers tickling as he dangled the locket around her neck, working with the clasp.
The locket felt heavy on her chest. She clutched it when Rowan finished, and he moved back to stand before her.
“Thank you,” she muttered, afraid to meet his gaze, taking interest in the book on her lap instead. She placed the book open on the table beside her.
“Can I show you something?” she asked at last, her voice as soft as a petal torn loose by the wind.
When he didn’t answer, she looked up at him. His expression wavered—caught somewhere between reluctance and curiosity—but finally, he inclined his head for her to lead the way.
The halls stretched long, each step a ghostly rhythm tapping against the stone. The castle held its breath as they passed, shadows watching from the corners. They both seemed keen to pretend the other day never happened, both silent, not wanting to startle the other.
Paeonia wrung her hands together, unsure why she felt compelled to share this with him. Perhaps because she’d begun to think of him as a friend, no matter the torment he seemed keen on.
They reached the doors that led out to the gardens, the sun hung low, a bleeding orb hovering at the lip of the horizon.
Gold poured across the glass panes, touching the ivy and the iron in a delicate dance.
When she glanced back as they slipped outside, she couldn’t help the surprise that Rowan was following her so obediently.
“I never thanked you.”
“For what?” His tone was soft.
“The gloves. The watering can. They’re beautiful.” Her lips lifted in a hesitant smile. “Truly… thank you.”
He grumbled something indistinct, but he didn’t dismiss her.
Didn’t turn the kindness into a jest or shield.
That was enough to make her heart warm. And when she glanced his way, he almost looked hurt.
Like he was pained over her apologizing when he had just terrorized her in the gardens yesterday.
Like he expected her to never talk to him again.
They reached the small alcove where the tombstones rested in a hidden corner of stillness and memory. The air felt thicker here, hushed by reverence. Paeonia slowed, stepping carefully between patches of moss and newly planted flowers.
“Why did you bring me here?” Rowan asked, suspicion threading his tone.
She turned to fully face him. “I wanted your opinion,” she began. “You know Castor better than anyone. And I wasn’t sure…” She bit her lip, then gestured to the headstone she had tended. “I thought maybe this one mattered to him.”
The grave looked different now. The earth was neat, the stone clean of lichen, the flowers reaching up as though eager to touch the fading light. Where once neglect had ruled, life now crept back in.
“I might be wrong,” she admitted. “But…do you think Castor would like it?”
Rowan stepped closer. The dying sun gilded his hair as he studied the stone, fingers brushing the carved name.
“He told you about her?” he asked quietly.
“No. But I saw the way he looked at it. I just assumed…” She trailed off, heat rising in her cheeks.
Rowan exhaled, leaning back against the wall, eyes unfocused, as if looking into another life entirely.
“Her name was Cecilia. They were mates, as I’m sure you’ve guessed.
Madly in love. It was insufferable to watch, really.
” His voice wavered between fondness and old bitterness.
“He’s never forgiven himself for what happened. ”
“What did happen to her?”
He was silent for a long moment. “Castor made a bargain with my father to secure wealth and power. Not for himself. But for her. He wanted to give her the life she deserved.”
Paeonia frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Castor.”
Rowan’s gaze flicked to hers. “No, it doesn’t. But love makes fools of us all. He had so little, and he wanted to give her everything. Only, Cecilia never wanted gold or titles. She wanted him. When she found out, she was shattered. She believed he knew her better than that.”
He pushed away from the wall, pacing a few steps as he spoke, his voice gaining a low intensity. “But the deal was done. My father doesn’t take kindly to broken promises. If Castor failed to fulfill his side—”
“He’d turn to stone,” Paeonia murmured.
Rowan nodded. “His servitude was the price. He did what was asked of him—for years. Until the things he was made to do began to poison him. Cecilia couldn’t bear to watch him turn into something cruel. She tried to stop him, but she died trying.”
Paeonia’s throat tightened. “That’s awful.”
He looked back toward the grave. “He stopped after that. And stopping meant breaking the bargain. Her death should’ve killed him. Would’ve, if not for what he became.”
“Stoneborne,” she whispered.
“Yes. His heart would have shattered entirely if it weren’t already half-turned to stone.”
She stared down at Cecilia’s name, sorrow blooming quietly within her chest. “He would’ve died of a broken heart.”
Rowan’s silence was response enough.
“Stars,” she breathed. “This mate business sounds like nothing but torment.”
Rowan let out a soft huff that might have been a laugh, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. “You sound like me.”
The last light of day poured through the garden’s arch, spilling molten gold across his face. His features, sharp and almost cruel in shadow, softened beneath the sun’s retreat. He was, she realized, devastatingly beautiful.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment. The air shimmered with what might have been peace, or something perilously close to it.
Rowan broke the silence. “You should go back to your rooms,” he said, his voice low. He nodded toward the horizon, the sun beginning to dip, leaving them to stand where light met shadow.
She gave him one last wistful look, wanting to say something, but unsure of what. Her lips tilted into a half-smile before departing, his gaze burning through her until she was out of his line of sight.
Inside, the sconces on the walls lit her way, sparking to life to show her the path. She followed the light aimlessly, her mind still locked in deep thought, her chest still racing with nerves.
When she got to her door, a Stoneborne lingered in the shadows of the hallway. Paeonia froze, looking over at them, before taking a few hesitant steps. She couldn’t tell who it was. “Hello?” she called.
The Stoneborne moved toward her, and Paeonia recognized her the second she saw the cloak around her shoulders.
“Do not marry him.”
Paeonia stopped in her tracks and blinked several times. “I’m sorry?” She tilted her head slightly.
“You will die, girl. Laurus is not to be trusted.”
“Laurus?” Paeonia didn’t quite recognize the name, though, there was a familiarity about it that rolled over the syllables.
The Stoneborne came within arm’s reach and stared at Paeonia. “I know you feel for him,” she whispered, “but do not marry him. You have to believe me.”
“What? Why?”
The Stoneborne shook her head before turning around and leaving. “You never listen.” She sighed. “You’ll want to check the gardens, Georgia. He waits for you there.”
Paeonia’s heart froze. Those were the exact words she had told her several nights ago when Paeonia had been chased by wolves and the stag. The Stoneborne had told her what she was looking for would be in the gardens.
“You set me up,” she whispered. But the Stoneborne had already left.