Chapter 21 #2
‘That can’t be the only reason,’ I push. ‘Not after . . . Not now you know what I am.’
He rubs a hand over his face. ‘After we fought, I returned to the park. Helped clean up the mess. But every time I saw a scattered rose petal, it’d remind me of all the roses I grew for you at the inn, and how delighted you are every time you see a new bud blooming.
And I kept trying to be angry with you, and I .
. . couldn’t. I’d built this picture of a Souleater in my mind, and you’re the opposite of everything I’ve imagined.
You aren’t like the rest of them. You’d rather ask people nicely than hurt them. I couldn’t let you do this alone.’
Tears make a fresh attempt at falling. You aren’t like the rest of them.
It’s something I’ve tried to tell myself over and over, but the fact that Astin, of all people, is the one saying it to me makes my chest tighten, like I’ve channelled every emotion in the world and don’t know what to do with them.
He tugs on a strand of my damp hair, wrapping and unwrapping it around his finger, deep in thought.
Eventually, he says, ‘It’s funny, what you said about why you stayed at the inn.
That if you were only around guests, you’d never be in a position to kiss them.
I had the same idea. After Olivia died, it was like being plunged into dark water.
I couldn’t see. Could barely stay afloat.
I thought the inn was exactly what I needed.
Somewhere to hide away, never get attached, never watch someone die. But you were this . . . light.’
His shoulders sink. ‘I have tried to control every aspect of my life since the night of the attack. Meals at the same time of day. A pattern to the clothes I wore. Every item in my room arranged at neat angles. Predictable is safe. You can’t be surprised.
Can’t be hurt if you know what’s coming.
But the one thing I have never, not once, been able to control, is the way I feel when I look at you.
You’re right, I should be furious with you, and I’m just . . . not.’
His words squeeze my heart until it wants to burst. Simultaneously terrified, desperate and hopeful for the answer, I whisper, ‘How do you feel instead?’
He brushes his hand across his chest. ‘Confused, mostly.’
‘Con–’ I blink. ‘Confused?’
It’s not the word I’d have chosen. It’s certainly not the way I feel when I look at him. I am, unfortunately, crystal clear about the emotions he elicits in me.
‘I can’t . . . I shouldn’t be able to . .
. but sometimes I . . .’ He sighs, and I follow suit.
I suspect I’m never going to learn the ends of these sentences, as fascinating as they might be.
Maybe I should help him out by describing how I feel right now: irritated.
I don’t get a chance though, because after another loud sigh, he says, ‘Maybe you should finish with my leg.’
I’d prefer to finish this conversation and see if I can coax a more flattering adjective out of him, but he seems to have decided he’d rather not look at me at all.
‘Fine.’ I return my attention to his thigh. ‘You need stitches. I have nothing to stitch it with. How’s that?’
Rolling his eyes, he nods at my bag. ‘I put a needle and thread in your pack before we left, just in case.’
I snort, meaning it to sound derogatory, but I suspect the underlying affection there is evident. ‘Always thinking ahead.’
I open my saturated bag to find the clothes within are soaked through. ‘Ugh.’
They’re dumped with a wet plop on the floor, and I rummage around the bottom of the bag to find a tiny wooden box I hadn’t spotted before. The contents are thankfully dry.
Which means I’m going to have to do this.
My hands shake as I thread the needle. Embroidery is not a skill of mine; medical care even less so. I could easily make this worse. I sterilise the needle in the fire, before resuming my position at his feet. ‘Ready?’
He grunts, which I take as a yes.
Resisting the urge to close my eyes, I plunge the needle into his skin.
‘Fuck.’ His hand grips my shoulder. My insides lurch as I squash yet another wave of nausea. Oh, hexes. I have no idea what I’m doing. The needle’s only in one side and there is so much more to sew and – ‘Daisy,’ he adds, voice a little faint. ‘Don’t stop.’
‘But . . .’
‘Just do it.’
I press my lips together to keep from crying. The ability to make a healing potion would be great right now. Instead, I’m uselessly prodding at him with this tiny silver thing, feeling him shiver as I loop the stitch through to the other side.
‘Talk to me,’ he says through gritted teeth.
‘I’m trying to concentrate.’
‘And I need the distraction.’ His breathing is laboured. ‘Come on. You love talking.’
I glare at him. ‘Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about? Because if you recall, you cut our last topic short.’
He grinds his teeth, and I recommence my work in furious silence, like there’s a raging storm swirling in the space between us.
Two stitches later, he says softly, ‘Tell me about you.’
‘What?’
‘About what you are. I want to understand.’
‘There isn’t much to tell.’ I pull the thread too tight, too quick, and he curses again before putting his hand over mine in a gesture that’s not so much affection as please will you stop causing me bodily harm. ‘You probably know more about Souleaters than I do, given . . . everything.’
The awkward knowledge of how he spends his spare time must be more painful than what I’m doing to his leg, because he flinches harder than ever. ‘I don’t want to know about Souleaters. I want to know about you.’
I swallow, struggling for where to begin.
I’ve never voiced any of this out loud before.
‘Okay. Well, my great-great-granduncle was a Souleater, and apparently I’m the only lucky member of the Flowers clan to have the same affliction.
When I was a little, I’d get these flashes of feeling, sense these strange emotions I couldn’t name.
One day, I dug my nails into my cousin and almost hexed her, and that’s when we realised what it all meant.
I blasted shadows around for weeks afterwards.
My parents told me I needed to control it, because if I got caught . . .’
I trail off. We both know the answer to that.
‘They tried to treat me normally, but they’ve always been wary.
They won’t get close. But I learned to master it – the want.
The need to channel the magic in every emotion I sensed.
I’d make sure to breathe through my mouth if I got too close to someone, so it was harder to smell what they were feeling –’
‘You can smell what people are feeling?’