Chapter 29
Phin
While Tap was gone, I made use of his bathroom.
He was always so tidy it seemed like I’d stumbled on a secret when I discovered his bathroom counter was rather cluttered with products.
His shaving cup and brush needed a thorough cleaning and a new bar of soap.
His razor blade was starting to rust. Several glass bottles in assorted shapes, sizes, and colors sat in an order only he understood, awaiting use.
I pulled the cork from one and sniffed, discovering what had to be his aftershave.
Clean towels hung in half-folded disarray on the bar while the used ones lay in a sad pile on the floor, and several items of clothing were also mixed in the mess.
It was nice to get a glimpse at his chaos beyond a dirty teacup left on the table next to his chair or a shirt forgotten in the laundry room—the flaws made him seem more real.
I climbed back onto the firm, oversize mattress. After arranging a spot for Tap to sit, I snuggled in with several pillows at my back and three cuddly blankets.
Shortly after I’d gotten comfortable, Tap returned with his quill, inkpots, and somehow, more snacks and a freshly brewed pot of tea.
“I didn’t know if you’d be tired yet, or …” He trailed off, stacking the new items on the tray alongside the old ones.
It was quiet between us as he got set up, the only light from a lamp he lit and set on the table next to him. He removed his spectacles and put them next to the light.
The dark color of the walls and floor, the coziness of the décor … all of it had me sinking into the mattress. I couldn’t understand in the least why he couldn’t sleep here.
I silently watched him start another small section of tiny designs on his leg before finding my voice again, the rhythm of the quill point against his skin hypnotic.
“That’s my scroll,” I whispered.
He paused, peering closer at the marks he was leaving. “Is it? That was not intentional.” He glanced over at me. “May I use your design, Phin?”
For some reason, the idea made me want to cry again. “Yes. Of course you can.”
“Thank you.” His mouth twitched into a gentle smile, and he continued.
My eyes strayed from him to the huge vase on the table. It was packed full, flowers and greenery spilling over the edges of the pottery.
“The bouquet is beautiful. Where did you get all those flowers?”
“Vassago and Greta picked them up in Aymonroux.”
“Oh.” I smiled as a happy memory bubbled up.
“The shop would sometimes gift the ones nearing the end of their bloom that hadn’t sold to the church.
Father would have me put them in little vases at the ends of the row of pews.
” The uneven lip and off-kilter handle hinted that the pottery was likely his. “Do you have them in a pitcher?”
The tips of Tap’s ears went pink. “Yes. I was in a hurry.”
“Well, it works perfectly.”
“As a vase perhaps, but as a pitcher it falls a little short. I forgot to put on a spout or even narrow the lip so that it would pour well. I went through a phase of making functional vessels—pitchers, pots, cups. Thankfully my skill improved as I went along.”
“Maybe I need to visit that workshop. I always wanted to see if I could make a bowl or plate,” I said, which earned me a smile. “They smell nice. The flowers.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Irises and tulips,” I said without hesitation. “They always bloom early and aren’t afraid of a little frost or snow. Once those flowers start to break the soil, I know I can hope for warmer weather soon. And the color, of course; both come in lovely shades of purple.”
“Very logical. I’m afraid there aren’t any of either in this bouquet.”
“That’s alright. My only complaint about them is they don’t have much of a fragrance. And these are nice, something in there smells lovely. I’m not a fan of most greenery.”
His mouth twitched, and he looked up from his work. “I gathered.”
“But the bits of ice leaf and fern they use in the bouquets don’t bother me.
” He dipped his quill in the pot of ink and looked away, focusing on his work.
I appreciated that he was trying to put me at ease, take the pressure off me.
It allowed me to find my words much easier.
“There was … an incident, in the gardens.” Tap’s silver gaze flitted to mine, the quill in his hand tilted away from his skin.
“I had just turned sixty. Because I went back and forth so often between Earth and Heaven, the way I aged wasn’t as predictable as being in either place all the time.
On top of that, any angel born around the time I was is … different.”
“Different?”
I nodded and sat up, needing something in my hands as a distraction. I poured myself a tea and picked up one of the little finger sandwiches he’d brought. “My mother guessed it was a response to the angels not being made.”
Tap’s head tilted. “Is it an illness? Are adult angels becoming unwell? Dying?”
I shook my head. “From what I understand, established angels don’t seem to be as affected as newer generations. But the bestowing of wings on new arrivals isn’t working. New angels are not being made.”
“That sounds rather desperate indeed. For how long?”
“I’m not sure, but as long as I can remember.”
“You said your generation is different?”
I swallowed, focusing on the smear of tea leaves in the bottom of my cup that resembled a crescent moon. “Yes. We’re … equipped … for more earthly types of reproduction.”
“While not all were, that’s been true of quite a few of the angelic line for a very long time. Nephilim wouldn’t exist otherwise.”
“Not like this.” I fidgeted. “Many of us now have a very pronounced fertility cycle. Like some animals have.” I could see the questions flit across Tap’s intently focused face, but he remained silent.
“Some have one every month, others just a few times a year.” I explained to him as I had to Greta, that when you succumb to it, you are completely indisposed for at least a few days.
“That’s … I don’t even know what to say about that.” He bowed his head again, the quill scratching along his skin with intensity. “And that’s what the tincture was for? To stop that from happening?”
“Yes. I’ve taken it since my first cycle.”
Tap settled back against the cushions, arranging himself in a way that he could work a bit easier and still look at me. “Something happened in the gardens, you said?”
I drank the rest of my tea and returned the cup to the tray, even the memory causing my heart to beat faster.
“I was with some other Nephilim, and we were sneaking around where we weren’t allowed to be.
I wanted to see some of the creatures.” I swallowed.
“Instead, we found a walled garden.” Tap’s head raised for a moment, but he seemed to understand that his work with the quill was keeping us both focused.
“We just thought it was something restricted, something we weren’t allowed to enjoy because we were Nephilim and not full angels.
Admittedly, we all had chips on our shoulders about being treated differently, so it felt like we’d won something by getting to just walk right in.
We should have been more cautious.” A tickle in my irritated throat sent me into a coughing fit.
Tap stopped his design and I reached for more tea before he could, sipping until I had eased the sensation and continued in barely more than a whisper.
“The stone walls were three times as tall as me, with vines growing all over them. The flowers were blooming, everything looked so healthy, so beautiful. I was enjoying looking around when I suddenly got very hot and felt a little out of sorts. I sat down to rest, not realizing that nobody else was as far into the garden as I was. There were four men and two other women with me. I could see the two other women being carried out, so I can only assume it was because they were feeling the same way I was. But they’d all been closer to the door.
They’d heard the patrol coming.” I exhaled, remnants of the fear from the moment I realized they had all gone increasing my pulse.
“They all left you there? Alone?” he spat, clearly furious.
“I don’t think it was intentional. And the door had been wide open when we went in, so there was no way for them to know that it would lock behind them as they ran out, or that there was no latch or even a handle on the inside.
They were just scared of getting in trouble.
Probably worried about the other women, since they’d collapsed the same as me. ”
Tap stopped working and stared at me, his mouth halfway open in horror. “You are far too generous, Feather.”
“Maybe.”
He swallowed, nostrils flared as he breathed. “How long?”
“Four days.” The quill clattered to the floor. My throat tightened, remembering only flashes of what even then was like one long fever dream. “The whole of my first estrus cycle. My father found me after. I don’t remember that part though. Or much of the next couple of weeks.”
Tap scrunched his eyes closed. “Saints.”
I could see the intricately designed beds and walkways lined with plants clearly in my mind, the deceptively beautiful blossoms, the common-looking greenery. “I ate what I thought looked familiar. But there were no truly safe plants in there.”
Tap rumbled a noise low in his chest. “A poison garden.”
“Yes. Between hallucinations, my heart beating either too fast or too slow, and bouts of getting sick, I had to contend with cramping and a … a need I didn’t understand and couldn’t soothe.
At that point, nobody knew. Nobody could have explained what to expect when such a thing happened.
And I kept choosing what I thought were edible greens or berries only to end up more unwell.
I left a different person than I entered. ”
“Phin.” Sympathy infused his tone, and he reached for my hand. I let him take it, appreciating the warmth of his skin and the way he pressed my palm to his cheek.
“I’m doing much better now, but many of my memories from before and shortly after that are fragmented or missing. I don’t know how much to trust the ones I do have, but when they feel right, I do my best.” He flinched, my pointed wording landing as I hoped.
“That had to be … indescribable.”
“It was.” I took a deep breath and reached for my tea, my throat raw and raspy from having spoken so much. “If not for Ramsey, I’m not sure I would have recovered.”
“Were you not taken to the healers?”
I shrugged. “I was. I’ve never seen my father so angry and scared, I do remember that much. But there was only so much they could do.”
“Bullshit.” He spat the word with such force I startled.
“I’m sorry.” He squeezed my hand and then let go of it, pushing his fingers through his hair as his eyes flickered between red and silver.
“They had the whole of the angelic council at their disposal. Divine healers. They could have undone any injury a plant toxin had given you. Physically, mentally, it wouldn’t have mattered.
They could have helped. Especially soon after it happened. ”
His words left me feeling vindicated. After I’d recovered and had a chance to reflect, I’d thought the same thing. So had my parents—the lack of expedient help for me was one of the last straws as far as his affinity for the council and Heaven in general for my father.
“My mother did her best, and my father was still able to get me some medicines and things from Heaven. My original tincture, too. Mostly, I’m fine.”
“And the others? The Nephilim that left you behind?”
I shrugged. “I never saw any of them again. I was recovering, and then when I went back to Heaven, it was always to go straight to the archives with my father.” Tap’s mouth hung open, his rage palpable.
“I think my freezing episodes are probably related to what happened somehow, though that doesn’t explain why the bells triggered them so much, or why they didn’t start until I was living at the church.
” I’d thought about Hailon’s offer to try to repair my heart quite a lot since our visit in the glade.
I had hesitated out of fear that nothing would change, even if she could heal some of the damage.
For the same reason, I’d never tried any of Greta’s elixirs.
I was finally mostly functional, even with those brief moments of being frozen inside my own body.
But knowing now that the tincture was contributing, I was seriously reconsidering.
“Even I reacted to the blood in the metal. You were reacting both as an angel and as a demon, so it was twice as bad,” Tap said, sympathy heavy on his quiet voice.
“Perhaps you’re right. But the tincture isn’t—wasn’t—really working anymore.”
“Phin, your tincture was being made weaker.”
“What?”
“Greta and Vassago, they spoke with the apothecary. It was being diluted. Some of the herbs replaced with poison.”
I flinched. Ophelia had told me what she’d tasted. I’d believed her, of course, but hearing it again, especially from him was jarring.
“That …”
“It’s a partial explanation, at least. If it was damaging your heart, every time the bells rang your blood responding would make you feel weak.” Tap was somber, though I could feel the undercurrent of anger there as well. “Your wings are part of the cycle then, your fevers?”
I nodded slowly. “I can only assume so, yes. I haven’t used my wings since before that day in the garden.”
He rumbled a disapproving noise deep in his chest. “We need to find those herbs.”
“It may already be too late.” Even I could hear the defeat in my voice. “And Greta doesn’t even have a recipe.”
Tap leaned down to cup my face with his hands. “We’ll go tomorrow. We’ll find what you need, Phin.”
“And if we don’t?”
“We will,” he said again, more forcefully.
“You can’t know that. What if none of those places has the herbs, or—”
“We will find one of them, or an alternative. Covenants be damned, I’ll go to Heaven myself and speak to the healers.
My mate won’t be made to suffer any longer, I will not stand for it!
” The growl in his voice had returned. His eyes flashed red and his chest heaved as he caught his breath.
Tap pulled his hands away from my face, fisting them as he curled into himself, putting his body as far from me as he could without actually moving.
His eyes were wide as they settled back to silver.
I stared back at him, the charged word hanging there on the air between us.