Chapter 15
It’s after sunset when I punch in the code to unlock my mom’s greenhouse.
Sorbet skies stream rose and tangerine through the glass dome roof. Dreamy floral notes tickle my nose. The flowers and plants seem so alive at this hour. I look over my shoulder. Cary is close behind, eyeing everything.
I spread my arms out wide. “Welcome to another one of my favorite places!”
Cary wanders down an aisle. “It is beautiful.”
“Yeah,” I exhale, a quiet laugh chasing my words. We were just in Soho. Tokyo. Georgia. The farthest I’d ever been before today was Anaheim for a family trip to Disneyland when I was eight.
But this greenhouse stands up to all those places. Reverie held safe behind glass.
When I look again, Cary’s stare is centered on me. Unwavering. Does he find me beautiful too?
A blush streaks up my neck. Hot and distracting. I refocus to tell him about my mom’s love for plants. The history behind her family and the greenhouse. Everything I can remember.
“I’m terrible at growing things,” I confess, fingering the petals of a red larkspur.
A look dances on his face. Amusement? Surprise?
“I’m serious. I kill every houseplant my mom gives me.” I giggle. “It’s pretty tragic.”
“Like your dancing,” Cary suggests, that wicked curve to his mouth making it hard to scowl back at him.
We meet in the middle of another aisle. Near a raised bed of fiery poppies. Smiling, I whisper, “I love it here because it’s quiet.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. My heart skitters.
“It’s also magical,” I say.
“Is it?” His eyes finally lift.
“Obviously. I mean, I can’t believe my mom does all of this! She turns the smallest seed into the prettiest things.” I lower my chin, frowning. “Even when this world is ugly to her. Or to me.”
Cary’s thumb strokes my jawline. “You make this realm prettier too.”
I roll my eyes and say, “Shut up.” But he doesn’t.
“I have seen it, August.” His touch slides delicately along my lower lip. I’m helpless to the way my name sounds on his tongue, in his assured voice.
“Where is your favorite place?”
In the half-light, his eyes go dark. Slightly dimmer. “I am not allowed one,” he says.
“Not allowed?” My face scrunches.
He shakes his head. “I am never anywhere long enough to call it my favorite.”
Cary has been to every corner of this earth. Guiding souls to Aides. But how much time does he get to spend in his own world? Death never rests. Which means he probably doesn’t either.
“What about home?” I ask.
He looks away. My stomach coils.
“At the ball, Milos said something.”
His jaw tenses. Hard as stone. “What did he say this time?”
Warily, I reply, “That he can’t leave Aides. And that being who he is wasn’t his choice.”
Cary steps away. His fingers flex at his sides. He drifts over to a bed of island snapdragons. Their petals sway under his touch. Blood red against fair gold skin.
Moments pass before he speaks again.
“I was young like Yuri when my mother came to me with a choice: Grow to become the ferrier. Help souls find their way past our gates. Or stay in Aides. Become the prince who protects our world by balancing where those souls go next.” He inhales deeply. “The other role would go to Milos.”
A sharp exhale leaves my lips.
His thumb traces the veins of a leaf. “We were so small. Not yet ready. But my brother loved Aides. He would run in the Meadows and hide in the grand rooms. We would sit on the shores together.”
I try to picture it: Tiny versions of them. A less scowly Cary and a bright-eyed Milos, being kids. Creating chaos everywhere they went.
“Giving that up would have been unfair to him.”
“So you gave up your own life in Aides for him,” I say.
He turns to face me. “My mother trusted me. She knew what I could handle. Besides, I could still be around her.”
I piece together his words. “Your mom is Death.”
He nods.
There’s a softness in his expression. The same fondness I wear anytime I look at my own mom, no matter what oceans are rippling inside me.
“Did you even know what it meant to be the ferrier?”
He nods again. I watch him move over to a couple of potted flowers. Cymbidiums, boat orchids. Their fleshy, thin magenta petals shiver under his tender touch.
“I had watched other ferriers,” Cary explains. “The ones before me.”
My brows knit. “Before…you?”
In the falling sunlight, his eyes grow blacker. The deepest parts of the ocean. He looks at me. “I am not the first, August. None of us are. Except my mother.”
The revelation jolts me. I lean on a workbench. So many questions crowd my brain. I don’t know where to start. But Cary does.
“Deathless have existed for as long as your realm. We are chosen. And we can choose to carry this power”—he turns his palm over and I swear I can see rivers of gold along his palms, brightening the shape of his veins—“for as long as we want.”
“Then what?”
He sighs up at the sky. “We give up the power. To someone else worthy. We leave behind who we are for Elysium.”
My breath catches. It’s like the room is spinning. There’s so much I still don’t understand. But I see the somberness around Cary’s eyes. Pulling at his mouth.
He didn’t fully understand the role he was taking. What he’d committed to. Or what he’d condemned Milos to.
Cary was a child.
I move closer to him. “You love being the ferrier, though.”
His lips twitch. “Can you tell?”
Nodding, I say, “You’re so good with them. The souls. You’re…gentle.” My hands fidget, desperate to touch him. I stop myself.
“The last ferrier was”—he pauses, chewing his lip—“tragic.”
Now I’m grinning.
“He did not care for their fears,” Cary continues. “For him, it was just a role. Like with…”
He trails off. But I know what he wants to say: Milos.
There’s a weight behind his stare. My pinkie skims the back of his hand, coaxing him on. To tell me more.
“Over time, my brother has changed. He makes his own rules.” He frowns. “I blame myself. I made him who he is.”
The sun tucks behind the trees surrounding the greenhouse. In its afterglow, we burn pink and violet.
“Is this the life you want?” I ask.
He can give it up. Stop being the ferrier. That’s what he said, right?
The skin between his eyebrows pinches. “I do not trust anyone else to do what I have to.”
I shake my head. “That doesn’t answer my question. Is this what you want, Cary?”
“Is this the life you wanted, August?”
The suddenness of his own question makes me pause. Bright orange petals draw my eye. Marigolds. On Mom’s workbench. A wave curls in my belly, splashing its way up my chest.
“No,” I whisper. “It’s not.”
He watches me, expectant.
The truth, I remind myself.
“It was a car accident,” I say. “Almost two years ago. That’s what killed him.”
With an unsteady voice, I piece together that night for him. Being nervous behind the wheel. The casual drive around London’s quiet neighborhood.
Then London himself. Hair damp from a day at the beach. His weird smile as he went on and on about UCSB. He’d planned a visit for us. It was three weeks away.
My voice goes high, breaking at the part about the red light. Tom Petty bleeding through the speakers. London had something to tell me. An unfinished discussion. But all I saw was the boy I loved, eyes as green as the traffic light.
All I saw was the other car’s headlights before the blackness swallowed me whole.
Now my vision clouds. Hot, stinging tears turn Cary into a blurred shape. “I had the green light,” I croak. “That’s the rule. I go on green. I had just passed my driver’s test. I knew the rules.”
It didn’t matter. The other driver was texting and driving. Not paying attention.
An echo of pain reverberates through my left shoulder. I stretch it out, then continue. “I’m the reason he’s dead. He should be here.”
Not me clogs the back of my throat.
On my worst days, that’s my first thought. It should be him here. Still breathing. Living his life. Not wasting away like I am.
London’s dreams burned so brightly, while all of mine flickered out the moment he died.
I drag my arm over my eyes. “Sorry,” I say with a hiccup. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s been so long—”
Cary catches my jaw between his fingers. His other hand brushes curls off my forehead. He stares into my eyes and says, “You have nothing to apologize for, August.”
“I can’t help it.” I blink free more tears. “I’m sorry it hurts. I’m sorry it hasn’t stopped hurting.” I inhale shakily. “Sometimes, I’m drowning. Sometimes, I’m fine. But the tide keeps coming. It won’t stop.”
My eyes squeeze shut. I don’t open them until there are no more tears to fall.
“And I’m sorry I stole everything from him.”
I’ve never told anyone any of this. To be honest, the only person I’ve wanted to tell is London. I keep waiting for Cary to agree. Or for him to give me a pitying look like everyone does.
Poor August, he can’t get it together. He can’t move on. He’ll never be okay.
That look never comes.
Tenderly, Cary pulls me into him. He holds me. His scent is a tangle of fruity snapdragons and pomegranate in my nose. He’s warm, solid. His hand presses to my spine.
He keeps me close.
Against my ear, he whispers, “It was not your fault.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard that. My parents. Max. The school counselor who sat me in her office to talk about what happened. They’ve all said it.
But coming from him, it’s different. Truthful.
“You have no control over what Fate decides.”
I sob-laugh into his shoulder. “I have no control over anything.”
His fingers slide across the back of my neck. Goose bumps rise in their wake. My pulse flutters. When I draw back to look at him, it’s as if I’m finally seeing him.
His thoughtful features. The care in his gaze. He’s a god. And a boy. And something much more.
Unthinking, I say, “I have no control over how I feel about you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I don’t know,” I say, voice rough.
His smile is playful. “Maybe we both ask too many questions.”
One of my hands finds the back of his head. Soft curls loop around my fingers. I lean forward and he meets me halfway.