What One Finds In Secret Garden #2
Her answer comes garbled, a silent sob slipping free as she speaks, “That’s the thing...
I don’t know. And I’m too terrified to find out.
I know one thing… They would have searched for me.
They would have left that godforsaken settlement and searched the world over for me, and that scares me to death, because I have no idea what they might have faced or what trouble they could have run into trying to find me. ”
I nod against her head. “Don’t lose hope. They might still be out there, looking. You have to believe that. Do not dread the worst.” I hesitate, then press on. “I’ll start asking around in the cities and towns I visit. See if anyone’s seen them. Maybe we should…”
She wipes at her face and lifts her gaze to mine.
I continue, quieter now, uncertain how she’ll take it. “Maybe we could post a notice. In the settlements—on the boards where people look for others. You could include your picture. Let them know you’re alive. It’s something survivors used to do… to find their families.”
“Is that safe?”
“We could take steps to make it safe. A hidden message, something only they would recognize. At the very least, it might stop them from searching… from putting themselves in danger the farther they go.”
She studies my face. “Can we do that?”
“Yes. It’s what some people are doing, even now. Most towns have a board for the lost.”
She nods quickly. “Yes.”
She’s on her feet a moment later, grabbing the Polaroid and pressing it back into my hands. “Oh God, I’m a mess right now, but that can’t be helped.” She fixes her hair, swiping at the damp tracks on her cheeks, then forces a smile into place.
“You look constipated,” I tell her. “Relax your face. There… a little more. Now think of that memory. Your mom reading to you. Your dad in the background telling you to pipe down.”
Something shifts.
A real smile returns, bright and unguarded.
A Lila smile.
I take the picture, catching it before it slips free, and hand it over as soon as it hits my hand. She fans it, watching it develop, her grin refusing to fade.
Her hope is back, and it’s damn nice to see.
“Take all the books you want. In fact…” I snatch up The Tale of Peter Rabbit and wave it in the air. “I’ll do the same. We need to start working on our accents if we’re going to get this storytelling business right.”
Her laughter is music to my soul in a way nothing—not even birdsong—can match.
I push to my feet and hold out a hand. She takes it, and I pull her up as she groans softly, one hand on her belly.
“I suck at accents,” she says. “I tried to mimic Orán’s while we were in the cellar, and the man looked at me like I’d just murdered his favorite pet.”
“It’s going to take some practice,” I say, then attempt one of my own from another of the stories I love, Heidi by Johanna Spyri.
“Everything must have a beginning.”
“Oh God. This poor child’s ears. That’s worse than my mom’s. We are totally screwed.”
We laugh together, and she leans into me, clutching tight. The sound fades, leaving only the quiet between us.
Then she pulls me into a fierce hug.
“Thank you, Eri. For everything. For saving me. For taking care of me. For giving me a safe home—a place to raise this baby—and for looking out for me. And… for making me believe there can be a better life for him than what I’ve been imagining.”
“You don’t—”
“No, I do. Because without you, he might never meet his grandparents. And I can’t tell you how much it means to believe that could still happen.”
I hold her tighter and nod. Words fail me. Because, in truth, she’s saved me just as much. Not from danger, but she’s softened my soul and opened my eyes to different sides of life I hadn’t realized existed.
She gave me the same kind of hope, where my future no longer feels so bleak.
I pull back, keeping hold of her arms. “What do you say? Should we let the Horseman out today and see how he gets along here? He’s probably in dire need of a bath, and I think he’s spent enough time thinking about the information I shared with him.”
“Yes, I’m sure he stinks to high heaven by now. And God, that man is too damn fine to go around smelling like a gym locker crashed into a garbage truck.”
“He is kind of handsome, yes?”
“Handsome? Eri. There is handsome, and then there is fiiinne.” She draws it out, fanning herself. “And that man is fiiinnneee with a capital F. Plus a dose of—” She flutters her hand dramatically. “Oh my dear lord.”
I laugh. “Please don’t tell him that. He’s already an actual angel who believes himself to be ordained by God as humanity’s judge and executioner. We really don’t need his head getting any bigger.”
I move toward the door, but she catches my fingers, stopping me.
“Just… just remember that one life can change the world.”
I tilt my head, studying her.
“One immortal can change the world.” She gestures to me. “Now imagine what two immortals could do.” The corner of her mouth lifts. “Just sayin’.”
Her words stay with me as I bathe and dress, weaving through my thoughts as I make my way to the cellar to release Orán.
Apprehension sits side by side with my curiosity as I head toward Orán’s cell. I twist the key in the lock, which is stiff from disuse, then pull the door open wide as the man responsible for those feelings pushes off the bed and rises quickly.
Shoulders relaxed, but hands bound loose enough to rest at his sides, he approaches, still wearing the divine rope and working with the confines of the foot and a half of freedom I gave him.
There’s no greeting. Only a stare—assessing, wary—that stretches between us.
“Come on.” I motion for him to step out and walk ahead of me.
His reluctance is evident as he stops just short of the threshold. “Have you made your decision, then?”
Brow arched, I ask, “Regarding?”
“My death or my freedom.”
“Still to be determined.” My tone stays even. “I thought you might like to come inside. Have some breakfast. Clean yourself up a bit.” I pause. “But do keep in mind that death and dismemberment remain an option if you attack me, Lila, or harm anything here I value.”
A slight smirk touches his mouth. “Threat delivered. Loud and clear.”
“Good.”
I pad softly behind him as we pass down the hallway and through the doorway into my workroom. He stops again, taking it in, but I only give him a moment to do so before I gesture toward the stairs and the sunlight spilling down from above.
He seems cautious about stepping into it, taking the last of the steps more slowly than the others.
“Lila’s cooking and should have it ready shortly.”
“I just need a moment, if that’s okay.” His eyes are closed when I look up. The tension in his shoulders has also eased.
I step next to him and wait.
“Take all the time you need.”
He turns his hands over, palms up. His chest visibly rises and falls with each inhale.
A breeze stirs.
It slips through the trees, soft at first, then gathers.
Leaves lift from the ground, spinning in a slow, messy cyclone.
The branches sway, whispering as the wind threads through them.
Overhead, the few scattered clouds begin to part, drawn away from the sun until the light breaks through, brighter, warmer.
The change is subtle—but it builds.
Birds startle from the branches, their calls sharp as they take to the sky, circling above us in uneven loops that slowly find rhythm.
I watch it all until understanding dawns. “Are you doing this?”
Eyes still closed, a grin slowly builds. “Yes.” He peeks an eye open and peers down at me. “Am I in trouble?”
“No, it’s just… well, the rope… It’s supposed to bind your powers.”
“They do. My divine powers.” His eyes close again, and he rolls his shoulders back. “But not the powers I had before I became what you see now.”
“These are your Druid powers?”
He nods. “Yes. Likely enhanced by my change, but they’re still mine. And not bound by these.” He lifts his wrists.
Then he falls quiet again, head tipping back, face turned fully into the sun.
He may be dirty—long overdue for a bath—but I can’t deny the stir in my chest as I watch him. He’s finely made. All of God’s creatures are, but Orán is something else. Handsome and masculine in a way that written words don’t necessarily define, like Pollock… but different.
He’s also softer. Quieter. A man who chooses his words instead of letting them choose him.
There’s a steadiness to him. A weight that isn’t heavy, but grounding—like standing too close to something that wields gravity and lures you into its hold, keeps you rooted whether you mean to be or not.
“So Pollock, the White Horseman, is your twin?”
He chuckles, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Lila told you everything, I assume.”
I shrug. “Enough.”
He scoffs lightly. “I figured she would.”
“Your brother… he…” My fingers toy with the edge of my sleeve, gaze drifting for a beat before I catch myself. I don’t know why I say it—why the thought slips free before I can stop it. “He kissed me.”
Orán jerks, turning sharply toward me. “Kissed you? Wait. You’ve met him? When?”
“When I stole his horse.”
He stares down at me, blinking once. Then again, slower this time, as if trying to make sense of it. “You stole Cali?”
“Is that her name?”
“Yes.” His mouth opens, then closes again, a breath pushing out through his nose. “And I’m surprised she let you get anywhere near her. Her temperament is…not the best.”
“She wasn’t happy, but I did ply her with treats.”
“Still.” He shakes his head, a short, disbelieving motion, one hand lifting slightly before dropping again.
His gaze sharpens and levels me where I stand. “He kissed you?”
“Yes,” I fight the smile. I really do. Not because of the kiss, but because of what immediately followed it. Remembering the look on his face when I dropped down from the recess on the balcony and sent him over the edge still brings me great joy.
“Right before I stole his sword and kicked him off his balcony.”