One
Turns out, I hated our couch.
I’d spent the entire summer on its indigo upholstery, watching the sun lazily crawl across the sky and my brothers adapt to their new lives outside of the mines.
I sat by as they found joy in their new professions and used the coin that I’d earned from saving Fernglove Manor—and more important, its immortal inhabitants—to live fully, without fear or the presence of death.
Of blight. My brothers had nearly succumbed to the creeping illness three months ago.
Their bodies had been riddled with yellow loam and black mold, with gaping, festering wounds steeped in illness.
With wild, senseless eyes that targeted nothing and everything as panic and mania settled like a fog over their minds.
I’d nearly lost them. And I’d given everything, even a portion of my own life, to save them.
In the weeks that followed, I’d been all too happy to merely sit.
Yet lately, that desire for stillness has turned to stagnation.
As the first hints of fall began to settle across the rolling hills outside, an urgency I’d almost forgotten began to bloom in my chest. Live.
I was supposed to be living with this borrowed time, but . . .
The ache in my body from expending my power had only just begun to subside, and even now I still felt the ghostly chill of death.
It was a whispered promise that grew louder every day, but death wasn’t here.
Not yet. I still had time before the ramifications of threadmending—magic that allowed me to see life’s threads and stitch them back together at the cost of sacrificing my own—came calling.
Vora, one of the former attendants at Fernglove, had returned home with me just as spring shifted to summer, and while I knew perfectly well how to brew my own healing remedies, she insisted on staying and helping.
For a while I begged her to go, to live her life free of the Ferngloves and their horrendous ways, but those pleas stopped when I realized I’d miss her soft chastising and incredulous brow. Now, I dreaded the day she’d leave.
And not because she was my last tie to Rorik.
My stomach clenched at the thought of him. He’d been the one to infect my brothers with blight. Even though Orin, the former head of Fernglove Manor, had forced his hand, it didn’t excuse Rorik’s actions. It never would.
A chill ravaged my skin as the fall air flowed through the open windows.
Leaves rattled somewhere in the distance, and I tilted my head toward the corner of the room.
Pain flared behind my eyes as a shadowy figure bloomed from the floorboards and climbed the walls like smoke.
The thin, wispy tendrils wrapped over themselves to form the outline of a tall figure, and my gut churned. My gaze tunneled to him. Death.
These hallucinations had become more frequent as the days went on.
A product of my pain, and yet he appeared real.
A being made entirely of cloak with a rattling breath like decayed leaves over cobblestone.
He never moved. Never did anything at all.
He only stared. It was as if he were counting my threads, waiting for the last one to dust away so he could claim my life for himself.
I should’ve been scared, but falling into his grasp was always my fate.
Instead, I ignored him. Forcing my eyes shut, I rode out the pain splintering through my head.
When it faded to a dull throb, I peeled open my eyes to find he was gone.
Like always. An unintentional grimace stole across my lips, and I forced myself off the couch.
Too much sitting. Too much thinking. Thank goodness market was today.
“Ready to head out?” Vora called from the kitchen. I stretched my hands toward the ceiling, eyeing the rafters where cobwebs used to cluster in the corners. Vora always found a way to stay busy. I needed to channel some of that energy.
“Yes. Are you done prepping the vegetables for dinner?” I wound around the couch and passed the stairs leading to the second story.
The small foyer was littered with Noam’s and Nohr’s boots, and I knew my brothers would get an earful from Vora later for not properly hiding them beneath the bench near the door.
A smile curved my lips. No one could scold like that woman.
My fingers trailed the stair railing as I moved through the space into the kitchen.
The room was small, cozy, with a cast-iron stove and large sink off to one side, and countless dowels and shelves on the other.
Apothecary jars and vials of every size were meticulously arranged with their labels on display, and a fresh collection of drying herbs hung from the wooden rods beneath the tinctures and balms. I didn’t forage quite as much as I used to, but I still liked to craft remedies here and there and attend market.
Vora stood over a counter chopping the last of our summer squash into bite-sized pieces. She cupped a handful and tossed it into a nearby bowl as she glanced my way. “Almost. I just need a few more minutes.”
“Noam is holding our table for us. Take your time.” I glanced past her to the open window overlooking the fields.
The hills had just started to bronze, the trees shifting from earthen green to vibrant auburn, ocher, and marigold.
A crisp morning breeze caressed the bare skin of my arms, bringing with it the faint scent of green apples and sugar.
The Hafters were baking again. Hopefully, they’d bring some goods to market.
I’d trade just about anything for a homemade apple pie with a flaky, buttery crust.
I’d never mastered the art of baking, despite all my years making tinctures and medicines.
In fact, Noam would argue that my minced pies were horrific, gut-clearing remedies that I should sell alongside my other concoctions to those in need of a good cleanse.
I’d ignored him at the time, grimacing through my own forkful.
Back then, we stomached whatever I put on the table.
We couldn’t afford to let food waste. Not until Rorik . . . I scowled.
“Something on your mind?” Vora asked without looking up.
Yes. Always. “Nothing in particular,” I replied instead.
She snorted as if somehow hearing my unspoken words.
Just then, a gorgeous, oversized moth fluttered through the open window.
A smile easily chased away my frown as I watched Ywena float effortlessly on the breeze.
She made her way to my shoulder and nestled against the bend of my neck.
Her stark yellow markings were a stunning contrast to the pale pink shade of her body, her fluffy wings a delicate kiss against my skin.
Twin horns curled above her twitching antennae, and her large blue eyes studied me with interest. And while I knew she had the power to jolt me with tiny electrical currents, she hadn’t shocked me once since we’d learned to communicate properly.
“Did you have a nice flight?” I murmured gently, raising one finger up to her delicate head.
She considered it for a moment before rubbing my knuckle with her two front legs.
Instantly, a rapid procession of images flashed through my mind: a moth’s-eye view of how she’d spent her morning drifting above the nearby fields.
Before Rorik, I could only guess at what Ywena was thinking and react to her not-so-subtle sparks of electricity.
The first time she’d shared an image with me I’d nearly choked on my water and ended up spewing droplets over her delicate wings.
She’d shocked me then, more out of irritation than anything, and chittered endlessly as she tried to push another image into my mind.
It took a few weeks and countless headaches to finally solidify our connection and for her visions to come through as clear as my own thoughts.
Without Rorik’s heartbond, it could not have happened at all.
Heartbond. A shiver trickled down my spine, and I stiffened at the mere thought of that word. Vora turned and narrowed her eyes. Her gaze traveled the length of my body before lingering on my face.
“I’m all right,” I said as I gave Ywena one last gentle poke.
“Are you sure?” There was a hint of panic in Vora’s voice.
Her hands stilled; her shoulders tensed.
She was waiting for me to break, and a tendril of guilt threaded through my gut.
She’d seen me at my absolute worst. She knew, better than anyone else, what happened to my body after I used my magic.
Vora had been the one to help nurture me back to life after I eradicated Fernglove Manor of blight and sent Orin to his grave.
She’d made tonics and wiped my sweat-slicked brow, carried blankets and fought anyone who dared come too close while I recovered.
Part of that fear, that memory of how ill I’d been, seemed to be branded into her bones.
She was always poised to rush to my side.
I couldn’t blame her; I was all too familiar with that ache.
I would never forget the sight of my brothers as blight ravaged their forms or forget the weight of their dying bodies as I held them close.
Some things went beyond muscle memory.
“You should rest,” she said, eyes flicking back to that damn couch. “We can skip market. We all know you don’t need the coin.”
Again, thanks to Rorik. His name hung heavy between us, and a hint of sadness worked its way through her eyes.
She’d been loyal to him for years, and still she’d chosen to come live with me.
Why, I didn’t know. I never asked because thinking of Rorik was like picking at a scab.
I never left it alone long enough to heal, and even then, the memory would remain.
The pain. The anger. I didn’t know how to forgive him, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.