Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
A nother week crawls by.
I spend most of it in bed, listless. Knowing Weston loves me should nourish me—it’s everything I’ve craved, laid bare and defenseless at last. Yet every time I relive those moments of confession, the memory dissolves into sticky, gluey pieces that burn my eyes and make my temples ache.
We may love each other, but we’re no closer to having a future together. In fact, one has never felt further from reach.
On the sixth day of wallowing, I decide it’s time to distract myself.
Instead of lounging around in my nightgown, I put on an actual dress, and the next day, I graduate to walking outside in the woods. Over the next week, the strolls become habit. I ramble beneath the cool dome of the forest, soaking up the late September sunshine, a basket hooked over my elbow. I forage for blackberries and elderberries, trusting my luck to keep me from choosing anything poisonous, and tuck interesting-looking pinecones and rocks in among my stash. Back at the cabin, I set out the berries for Weston as an offering. And he takes them. At least he does that.
I don’t see him. Not once. He delivers my food whenever I’m out, which must mean he’s close by, watching. Waiting for an opportunity to avoid me.
The knowledge makes my whole body cook to a simmer. Whether it’s anger or a perverse thrill at this reverse voyeurism, I can’t say.
Maybe both.
Weston’s aunt continues to improve. I know because she doesn’t cough anymore, and one day, I catch the tread of footsteps across the floorboards. She’s up, finally. Moving around.
I cock an ear, then set aside my book and consider. Weston told me not to visit her, but...
That was before. When I hadn’t yet nestled my heart in his hands. When he hadn’t yet squeezed so forcefully that the pulp bulged out between his fingers.
I splay my book face-down on the table and push back my chair, my decision made. At the tiny mirror over the pump-handled sink, I finger-comb my tangled hair as best I can. A wad of brown strands comes loose in the process, and I unwind it from my fingers, wishing for a brush. But since that’s not happening—my luck can’t create things from thin air, only create opportunities from what already exists—I braid my hair to the best of my ability and pinch my cheeks to infuse them with color.
Then I lean toward the glass. I look... Bright, actually. Alive. Like my time outdoors has instilled me with a vitality I never enjoyed while languishing in that stuffy mansion near Pine’s End .
Too bad this hale exterior conceals a heart that’s withered to ash.
I force a smile, hold it until it looks convincing, then sweep out the door.
At the other side of the cabin, I hesitate after knocking. What if Weston’s aunt doesn’t like me? Worse, what if she does ? What if she sees a Charm and wants me to perform some minor miracle for her? What if she wants to simper and stare, like my mother’s aristocratic friends?
Or maybe she’ll be like him . Maybe she’ll be entirely sane and want me to sacrifice my luck to save her nephew.
A sour chuckle coils in my throat. Fortuna, what I wouldn’t give to do exactly that.
If only he would let me.
Soft footfalls approach, making my nerves tangle. When the door swings open, I find myself face-to-face with a woman who looks remarkably like Weston—the same golden hair, the same angular features, the same piercing, tawny gaze. She’s older, but age has honed her beauty to a fine edge.
I can see now why he asked me not to visit. I would’ve known. Right away.
“Oh,” she says. Her voice is low and melodic. “It’s you. The Charm.”
“Hi. Yes. I’m Bria. I hope it’s okay that I came over here to introduce myself.” I wonder if I should extend a hand, then end up standing there, probably looking like I abandoned my manners on the roadside right around the same time Weston kidnapped me.
“Of course it is. You saved my life.” Her keen eyes meet mine, and there’s something in hers I like. A straightforwardness, maybe. A clarity that, while every bit as forceful as Weston’s, lacks the sting his does.
She doesn’t look like she houses a lit furnace inside her, one so overburdened and yet simultaneously neglected that it verges on exploding.
“How’re you feeling?” I say.
“Better. Much, actually.”
A tentative smile curves my lips. This isn’t so bad. “I’m glad to hear it.”
She nods. “Thank you. For sticking close. For sharing your luck with me.”
I pause. It’s something people almost never say to me, I realize. Thank you . Such a simple sentiment, and yet I can’t remember Brendan or my parents ever voicing it, even once.
Then again, they probably shouldn’t have to. It’s not like I’ve gone to any effort to help them. I don’t have the ability to turn my luck on and off. It just...is.
A smile crinkles the corners of the woman’s eyes. “I’m Helena. Would you like to come in?”
I ponder, but I don’t care anymore whether Weston would like it. “Sure.”
She props the door open, and I squeeze past. Her side of the cabin proves to be a mirrored twin of mine, right down to the kitchenette and hand-crafted table by the window. Even a replica of my bookcase is in residence, though the literary selection differs significantly on this side. I spy texts on woodworking and joinery, and another on fireplace mechanics. One on digging wells.
This is Weston’s half, then, and the realization makes me frown. Why build a home with two unconnected rooms, clearly intended to house two entirely separate people? Does he have more family I’m not aware of?
“Why don’t I put on some tea?” Helena bustles to the fireplace, where she strikes a match. A blaze roars to life in record time. She blinks at the catching flames as if puzzled.
I neglect to point out that it’s because of me. That firemaking proves nearly foolproof when I’m standing this close.
She hangs a kettle over the flames, and I glance around, wondering what I’m actually doing here. I must be lonelier than I realized. Starved for human contact.
With the kettle set, Helena motions me toward the table. We take seats across from one another, and she leans in, studying me.
Like Weston, she ignores my Mark. Her eyes never stray below my chin.
“So,” she says. “Has he come to his senses yet?”
I startle. “Who? Weston?”
She gives me a look. A come-on, let’s-not-play-games-now glance. “Yes, Weston. Has he decided to take you up on your offer?”
I open my mouth. Close it again. I guess we’re skipping the small talk. “He...told you about that?”
“Oh, child.” Her look turns knowing. “He didn’t have to. The walls don’t exactly keep secrets around here.”
I flush, deep and burning. Goddess, this woman heard me confessing the innermost contents of my heart. She heard me beg . How humiliating.
A wry twist lifts Helena’s mouth as she scans the evidence of my embarrassment. “If it’s any consolation, I’d already figured you two out. Every time he came to check on me, he’d stare at that wall so long and so hard I swore he was trying to see through to the other side.”
My cheeks burn hotter. “He did?”
“He did.”
“Oh. Well. It’s...complicated. Between us.”
Her attention falls to my collarbones, but only briefly. “Yes. I can see that.”
We study one another in silence. This close, the evidence of her convalescence shows—bruised shadows cling beneath her eyes and her green muslin dress hangs from a frame that was undoubtedly stouter a couple months ago. But she’ll be fine, eventually. I can tell that much at a glance.
“You probably already realize this,” she says, “but that boy doesn’t surrender anything that isn’t dragged out of him by force.”
I look down, to where my hands twist in my lap. I do know that.
“So you might have to do some dragging,” she adds.
I sigh. She makes it sound so straightforward, but I have no idea how to get Weston to stop fighting me. To quit pushing me away for what he thinks is my own good.
“He’s convinced his curse makes him unworthy of happiness,” Helena says.
I meet her gaze again. “It doesn’t, though. He doesn’t deserve to be punished. It’s not his fault Fortuna Marked him.”
“Oh, you’re preaching to the choir on that one, trust me.” Her smile is thin. “But try telling him that. He’d rather suffer than risk tainting anyone with his misfortune. And he’s spent so long believing the world has no place for him that he can’t see anything else. Even when it’s staring him in the face, bold as brass.”
The phrase tickles at my mind. Bold as brass . It’s what I would have to be, probably, to break through Weston’s walls. The only problem being that I’m not bold at all. Not brazen in the slightest. Fortuna hasn’t exactly given me the opportunity to cultivate that side of myself.
Helena reaches across the table and pats my hand. “Just don’t give up on him, is what I’m saying. He’s already spent too much time giving up on himself.”
The sentiment makes my chest hurt. I won’t give up. Not because I’m some bastion of fortitude, but because I can’t. Loving Weston is woven into my marrow, as vital and inescapable as breathing. The one time I tried to deny it, I got precisely nowhere.
“Not,” Helena adds, her tone swerving into dark, brambly territory, “that it’s his fault, really. You have to understand how hard life’s been for him. My sister wasn’t the best parent. She was... Is...” She sets her jaw as if doubting her next words.
“I know,” I say, hoping to relieve her of the need to continue. “Weston told me.”
Her head tilts. “Did he?”
I shift in my chair. “About how his mom refused to touch him when he was a kid? That she made him sleep in the kitchen so he wouldn’t be anywhere near her or his siblings? That every time something went wrong, she punished him, even though his curse was never his choice? Even though sometimes, he hadn’t been nearby, and whatever had happened had come down to actual luck? Yeah. He did.” I end with a click of my teeth, my jaw tight.
Helena scans me with new eyes. “Well. Yes, that’s it exactly. She wouldn’t even hold him when he was born. I don’t think she ever did, to tell you the truth. Not once.”
Outrage scalds my airway, and for a moment, I can’t speak. “I hate her,” I finally say. “I know I shouldn’t say that, because she’s your sister and everything, but whoever she is, wherever she is, I hate her guts.”
Helena leans back. Appreciation glimmers in her eyes. After a pause, she says, “I like you. A lot.”
A smile tugs at my mouth, equal part bitter and touched. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
She flashes a grin and goes to the kettle, returning a minute later with two teacups on saucers. She drops in the bags and offers me a cube of sugar. “No milk, I’m afraid. Weston was insistent on it all going to your side.”
My chest constricts, but I sip the tea until the tightness passes. Helena and I chat for a while, mostly about inconsequential topics that feel far safer than our opening one.
When I finally drain my teacup, I carry it to the sink and work the pump handle to bring up water. I wash out my dishes, then move on to Helena’s, since she’s still in recovery.
Also, I just plain like her.
“Will you come see me again tomorrow?” she asks, at the door.
I smile. “I’d like that.” And I mean it. Despite the fact that she reminds me of Weston, she provides a welcome distraction from the emotional debris the other night left me buried beneath.
“I’d like it, too.” She smiles. “And Bria, you should know that I’m leaving. In a few days. I’ve had my visit—eventful as it was—and now it’s time to go home.”
She must catch my crestfallen expression, because she adds, “Don’t worry, it’ll be better once I’m gone. It’ll give you two a chance to talk. Alone.”
“It won’t, though.” I hate how glum I sound. “Weston won’t come anywhere near me.”
“He will, eventually. Without me here, he’ll get lonely.”
My gaze sharpens. “Wait, what? Does that mean he visits you?”
At that, she looks sheepish. “Sometimes. Only for a few minutes. But...I always get the sense it’s not really me he wants to see. That he’s teetering on the edge, and all he needs is a push.”
I huff, wanting so badly to believe that, but something hollow and hungry nips at me.
“Or maybe a good, hard shove,” she tacks on.
A good, hard shove. Right.
Not exactly my area of expertise.
Back on my side of the cabin, I freeze the instant I close the door. Someone has been here. The book I left splayed face-down now lies closed on the table, a sprig of goldenrod serving as a bookmark. The sturdy canvas bag Weston uses for groceries sits on the counter, filled with bread and cheese and potatoes, while a bottle of milk sweats gently on the counter. And...
My stomach flips. There’s a hairbrush. Placed carefully in front of the grocery bag, where I can’t miss it.
I draw near, my pulse accelerating to a hum. I turn the brush over. It’s made of wood, carved smooth and fitted with boar bristles. My initials have been seared into the back. BIR. Bria Iris Radcliffe.
A flurry of emotions pops off within me, like the gunpowder firecrackers Brendan and I used to play with at New Year’s as kids.
Weston made me this brush. For me. With his own hands.
I like it infinitely better than the last one. And I’m flabbergasted that he knew my middle name, considering I didn’t know his.
Ignoring the groceries—I’ll put them away later—I wander over to the dead fire and sink into the armchair. I unravel my makeshift braid and work the knots from my locks, brushing until my hair is smooth and lustrous.
Then I look down at the gift Weston made me.
“Just give him a good, hard shove,” I tell it. “Bold as brass.”
The words echo in the empty room.