Chapter 20
A loud bam startles me out of my thoughts. Since that vivid illusion of the tree, I’ve been unable to focus on much. Gruffud is sitting on the armchair across from me, simmering, his hand resting on the tea table he’d no doubt just slammed his palm against.
“For the gods’ sake, woman. Get your damn head out of the clouds.”
“Apologies.” My voice comes out breathless and my heart is racing. I try to suppress the thoughts of that bizarre dream I had of the two women, but my mind keeps wandering to it.
“I must get to that meeting.”
What meeting?
Gruffud sets his teacup down on the table and stands, stepping toward me. I turn my face up to him, and he drops a kiss onto my forehead. His fingers slide through my hair, tugging slightly. “Why don’t you have curls like your sister and mother?” he asks.
My brows scrunch. That’s a new one. I’m used to criticisms about my body, not my hair. “My father’s hair is on the straighter side, I suppose?” Am I really explaining my appearance to this man?
His gaze drops down to the full swell of my breasts, his knuckles following, grazing over my cleavage. My shudder is not so subtle. He pulls his hand away and clenches his jaw, as if cutting off the flow of a nasty comment.
The more time that passes, the faster my tolerance for Gruffud dwindles.
The stubble that once gave him an attractive, rugged look now clashes with his otherwise polished appearance.
His voice is too harsh, his speech often gallingly like an encyclopedia.
He’s stopped opening doors for me, pulling out chairs.
Courtesy was the only affable trait he had, and even that is gone.
He straightens to walk to the door as Sage rushes to fetch his cloak from the coat rack. “No need to wait for me tonight,” Gruffud tosses over his shoulder.
I nod foolishly, unsure of what to say. Long after he leaves, I remain sitting there, staring at my own teacup until Sage takes it away. The sound of the clinking porcelain grows more distant, and I’m left alone with my thoughts overwhelming the silence.
I hate it here. With all my heart, I hate it. Even more than I’d hated residing with my own family.
Sage rushes past me again, this time heading to the door. My brows lift as she yanks the door open, and Neris steps in. I hadn’t even heard a knock.
Neris looks me up and down, her curly ponytail bouncing. “Realms, Winnie, you look—” She tilts her head. “Like you need some fresh air.”
I nod and get to my feet. It isn’t a bad idea.
Without another word, we head through the kitchen and out into the cool air.
I’m a tangle of nerves and negativity—in desperate need of literal grounding.
I kneel to remove my shoes and my stockings, unhooking them from the garters beneath my dress.
Standing with my bare feet in the grass, the soil underneath brings my body to the most comforting stillness.
I close my eyes and breathe in the crisp air, reveling in the life beneath my feet. I can feel animals burrowing under the surface, minerals and precious stones thrumming with their own heartbeat. I can feel strength, power, and possibility.
But the earth feels bruised. The plants cry out for help, struggling to grow against a strange force that seems to be sapping energy from the land. I’ve been feeling it for a while, as sure as I feel whatever force still lies within me, sapping me with equal fervor.
I crouch and press my hands against the grass, whispering to it in my mind. I hear you. I’m sorry. It feels like a slow-moving poison. A shattering.
Like a cleaved soul.
Does the earth have a soul?
“What does it feel like?” Neris’s whisper startles me.
My eyes blink open to the curiosity marking her face. “It feels like freedom. But also, the blight … it doesn’t seem like it’ll end soon”
She sighs heavily. “I’m jealous of your abilities. They seem amazing. Minus feeling impending doom.”
I smile wryly. “My powers weren’t so amazing when they first manifested.”
“I remember.” She makes a face. “But I’ve said it many times before and I’ll say it again: if you want to leave, I’ll come with you. Barr na Cahar is boring anyway. You speak of freedom; why not take a leap of faith?”
“Neris, I’m married now,” I remind her. “Also, Barr na Cahar isn’t so boring anymore.” I gesture vaguely over the house, to the streets beyond, where Peacekeepers patrol.
Neris deadpans, “That’s not the kind of excitement I’m looking for, Winnie. I’d prefer the kind that doesn’t get me shot with a bolt if I so much as make the wrong face. I’d love to wander the forests, gaze upon the beauty of the ocean.” She beams. “I’ve been saving up my earnings.”
“Likewise.” I plop down into the grass and sprawl out on my back.
Neris spreads out beside me. “It’s no secret Gruffud is a prick, but he doesn’t … hit you, does he?”
My throat tightens.
“And if he does, will you tell me?”
I keep my face pointed toward the sky where clouds race across the sun. We’re bathed in shadows repeatedly, but golden rays surround the pillows of white. My fingers itch with the desire to grab a paintbrush. This would make a beautiful painting.
If Gruffud didn’t become so surly whenever I took the time to put brush to canvas.
We sit in silence within our privileged prison.
Neris doesn’t push the topic further, and for that, I’m grateful.
Gruffud’s weapons of choice are words sharper than any knife, but I would not put it past him to hone those insults into something more physical.
Just as I wouldn’t put it past Neris to act on impulse if that ever did happen.
It would only put her in danger, and I cannot have that on my conscience.
So, if he ever lays a hand on me, Neris will never know.
In the morning, as I’m pressing letters into one of many leather book covers lined up before me, I feel the weight of Neris’s steady gaze.
I gently lay a strip of goldleaf over the book cover and grab the metal embossing stamp.
Painstakingly, I roll the embosser over the goldleaf, then clear the excess away to reveal the golden letters indented into the leather cover. The Life of Caoimhe Brogan. Perfect.
“Winnie, are you alright?” Neris asks. “You’re quiet today.”
I sigh. “I just wish I could stay here. Not here in the workshop, per se, but I suppose I miss the comfort of not having to—” I pause, wondering what the apt thing is to say.
“—go home to your husband?”
My gaze is drawn up to her expression of understanding before I refocus on the books. “I thought I would’ve become accustomed by now. That I’d learn to … enjoy things.” I lift an untitled book and spot a remnant of goldleaf stuck to my dark skin.
“You just miss me,” Neris quips as I remove the shimmery material from the back of my hand. “Admit it.”
I set a new book in front of me and stick my tongue out at Neris. She laughs, but my own amusement is interrupted by a wintry breeze sweeping over me.
A symbol glows on the ground as if lit by some kind of internal flame. My hackles rise, but I don’t make a peep. I set down the embosser I’d just picked up and walk toward the symbol just as it disappears.
A moment later, another appears a short distance away, but when I reach it, that one also disappears. Two more times, two more symbols, and the shelves upon which we keep our books draw nearer.
“What in hells are you doing?” Neris asks.
The whoosh of a tattered grey cloak catches my attention as it disappears around a corner of the shelves, heading farther into our storage area.
I take off running across the room in pursuit, my hand against my chest for stability, my corset threatening to tear under the sudden act of athleticism.
I probably should run in the opposite direction, but I go against my instinct and move toward the oddity.
“Alright,” Neris says, suddenly behind me. I jump so hard that I nearly collide with the nearby shelves. “Now I really think you’ve lost your marbles.”
When I look back, there are no symbols and no figures.
Neris sighs through her nostrils, her lips forming a thin line. “Have I told you lately that you need more sleep?”
For the first time in quite a while, I feel a familiar tug from within me.
The one telling me to get out of Barr na Cahar, to head northeast. The same sensation I get when I envision that damn tree.
They’re the ideas of a madwoman, and I promised to be done with fanatical ideals.
But it doesn’t hurt to dream about it, does it?
The sounds of rustling paper, clanging metal, and occasional hammering soon fill the space again. I take comfort in the tedium of it all, knowing that I’ll need to return to my husband before long, and wondering if a moment like today will happen again.
In the darkness, the tree stretches to the sky like hands trying to grasp something out of reach. It resonates deeply in my soul. I, too, am constantly grasping for something I can’t reach. For something unknown to me.
A figure moves across my plane of vision, spiking my pulse. I lock my knees and stand my ground. The figure turns to me, eyes like embers, an axe dragging on the ground. They lift a hand, a finger pointed toward me before they vanish.
I suck in a breath as another figure appears. Familiar curly hair and a gentle presence extinguish the flames and dread. In another swirl of shadows, she’s right before me, brown eyes large and pleading. “Try to stay with me,” she says in a gentle, soothing voice that I could listen to all day.
“How?” I ask.
A smile spreads across her lovely face. “Fair question. You … fight the urge to wake up or run.”
“Is this really happening?”
“It is. I’m a Dreamwalker.”
I squint at her. “How can I be sure that you’re trustworthy?”
“What does your instinct tell you?”
“My instinct is not the best,” I admit.