Chapter 10 The Gardener
The Gardener
The air is warmer than I expected, nothing like the cold, eerie mist of last night. This part of the keep is sun-drenched and strangely quiet, lined with vine-laced pillars that lead into yet another overgrown garden.
I pick my way along the flagstone path, balancing the plate and my dignity. My heels click unevenly across the cobblestone, the gown tugging at my hips with every step—beautiful and suffocating all at once. The moment I find a patch of grass, I exhale with relief and step off the stones.
“These shoes were made by a sadist,” I mutter.
The garden curls inward like a hidden alcove, quiet and still. A breeze stirs the leaves, carrying the scent of rosemary and rosehips. I spot a stone bench wrapped in ivy and carefully make my way toward it.
My heel catches on a root.
“Stars!” I pitch forward, my plate flying from my hands as my arms flail out to brace myself—
But I don’t hit the ground.
Strong hands catch me mid-fall, one at my waist, the other braced behind my shoulder. My chest flushes against firm muscles.
“You really need to be more careful, darling.”
That voice. Low, smooth, and far too familiar—the kind that sinks into your bones and stays there.
I look up.
Half-shadowed by an ancient birch, he’s impossibly tall and devastatingly handsome, with tawny skin, dark hair that brushes his shoulders, and a devilish smile accented by twin dimples and a shadow of stubble.
He wears work boots and dirt-stained trousers.
His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and paint smudges his fingers.
A gardener’s garb, but there’s something other about him.
Shadows cling like companions, and even the sunlight seems to bend away, as if it knows better than to touch him.
My heart lurches. “You,” I say, breathless.
“Me,” he replies, his smile slow and wolfish. Twin dimples flash like the curve of a secret.
For a moment, I just stare. The sunlight slides down his cheekbones, catching in the strands of his dark hair and streaking it with gold. There’s a smudge of soil near his jaw and another on his forearm. A leaf clings to his shoulder like even the plants want to stay close.
He doesn’t let go. His hand is still at my waist, the other braced behind my back, steadying me like I’m something easily breakable.
“You’re…” I falter, searching for the right word. “You saved me.”
His eyes flicker with recognition, though not surprise. He releases me gently, and the absence of his touch is like a cold wind against my spine.
I steady myself, cheeks flushed. “Last night. The garden. That was you.”
He doesn’t confirm it, but he doesn’t deny it, either. Instead, he turns and paces away to kneel beside a bed of violet roses as though our moment never happened.
I stand frozen and fuming. “You’re not even going to acknowledge it?”
He glances back over his shoulder, eyes full of quiet amusement. “You’re still breathing, aren’t you?”
The audacity. I huff and stalk toward him, the ridiculous shoes biting into my ankles with every step. “These damn—”
My heel catches on another root, and I yelp, pitching forward.
But he’s already there, again. His hand shoots out, catching my elbow. This time, he doesn’t smirk. He only kneels and deftly unbuckles the strap of my shoe.
I blink up at him. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” he muses. “You’re clearly at war with your footwear.”
He slips the shoe off, then the other, and sets them aside in the grass. His thumb grazes the arch of my foot in a single, fleeting touch that feels anything but accidental. He’s quiet, deliberate, infuriating—and yet no part of me wants him to stop.
I press my feet into the soil, grounding myself. Finally, I can breathe again. Let the king marry a girl who wears high heels and has perfect posture. I prefer to feel the earth as I walk.
He watches me for a long moment, his head tilted as if he’s reading a language written across my skin, taking in my relief. I wonder if he can read my emotions like Marb, but his ears are rounded, human. “Fine jewels, dresses, shoes…” He shrugs. “They’re not what pleases the king, anyway.”
I freeze. “You know the king?”
“Everyone in the keep knows the king.” He picks up a pair of shears from the stone bench and turns his back to me as he carefully prunes a deep red bloom. “Though some better than others.”
“I take it you’re the gardener?”
“Among other things,” he says, voice like velvet slipping across stone—smooth, rough, darkly warm. “Like patrolling late at night for firelings who are supposed to be asleep in their quarters. Tell me, darling, do you just follow any mysterious bright lights you see?”
I just stand there, speechless.
“This place is very dangerous,” he continues after a moment. “You shouldn’t wander around alone after dark.”
“Are you offering to be my tour guide?” I quip, then immediately regret it when I see the way his eyes darken as if to say, Don’t tempt me.
“Magic lives in every breath of this place,” he says quietly. “It tests all those who enter—and it always recognizes weakness.”
Did he just call me weak?
“Why did you save me if you were just going to insult me?” I ask.
He levels an even gaze at me, intense but unreadable. “I’m not trying to insult you.”
“Well, it certainly feels like it. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“Which one?” The gardener cracks a coy smile. “You have so many.”
I cross my arms. “Why did you save me?” I repeat.
He doesn’t answer, just looks at me for a long while. “Do you always demand answers from strangers in gardens?”
“Only the ones who steal my shoes.”
That earns me the faintest chuckle—the first real crack in his armor. He snips a stem and inspects it as if it might answer for him. “Some roses are worth bleeding for.”
“Is that another riddle?” I demand.
He glances at me, one brow raised. “You ask a lot of dangerous questions.”
I step forward. “And you never give a straight answer.”
“Maybe I like to keep people guessing.”
“Maybe you enjoy being infuriating.” I snap, realizing I may have gone too far. But he just smiles, slow and deliberate, the corner of his lips curling up to reveal a devastatingly handsome dimple.
“Not enjoy, Fire. Prefer.”
My hand curls into a fist. “I can’t tell if you’re warning me or threatening me.”
“What’s the difference?” he murmurs, stepping closer.
We stand in silence, too close for strangers, but neither willing to back down. A burst of wind stirs the ivy along the garden wall. Somewhere in the distance, birdsong echoes between the stones.
A bell tolls from one of the towers, its peal mournful and final. The gardener straightens, and the spell shatters. He takes one careful step forward and tucks something into my palm. I glance down to find a small blue flower, star-shaped and almost glowing.
“To help you sleep,” he murmurs. “Crush it in warm water and make a tea; Marb can show you how. That way, you won’t have any more late-night strolls.”
Our fingers brush again as he closes my palm around the delicate flower, sending a pulse through me that I can’t quite name.
Ever so slightly, he bows his head and disappears down the garden path, gone like mist in sunlight.
I stand there long while in the void he leaves behind. Behind me, the breeze stirs the roses, whispering secrets I’ll never learn. Barefoot and breathless, I stare at the tiny flower and realize I’ve traded one mystery for another.
That night, I make the tea.