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She pushed open the door.
Outside, the muggy air lay over the grass in whirls of fog. The lack of a moon turned everything to fuzzy-edged shadows, amorphous, easy for the mind to turn to monsters.
Lore stopped beside a topiary, turned her face starward. The night wrapped around her like a blanket.
Rose thorns picked at the silk of her dressing gown as Lore wandered through the gardens. The dressing gown was Bastian’s, really; his initials were embroidered across the chest. He’d given it to her the night after the ritual, when he’d brought her to his apartments, cold and bloody and numb with shock.
I will take care of you, she remembered him saying. His hands still glowed golden, his eyes almost the same, his voice with more resonance than it should have. You’re mine.
At least, she thought that’s what he’d said. Her memories were fuzzy. She recalled that he’d looked different when she woke up the next day, as the sun was fading down to dusk. Tired, eyes dark. When she’d come to him, stepping silently to his side as he stood by the window, he’d wrapped his arms around her in silence.
The wrought-iron fence guarding the Presque Mort’s stone garden loomed from the mist. Lore didn’t pause to wonder if she should enter. She just did, some instinct pulling her forward.
Stone flowers, stone leaves. In the far corner, a greenhouse, one she’d never ventured into.
Lore wandered forward, toward the well.
She stopped when she saw the person standing in front of it.
“Daughter,” her mother said quietly, her voice carrying through the fog.
CHAPTER THREE
The past comes back, endlessly. Nothing is set in stone until we are dead.
—Amita Giro, Kirythean poet
Lore’s feet felt frozen to the ground. Everything in her ran hot and cold, the urge to run and the urge to stay still tugging at her equally so her muscles tensed but would not move.
Her mother was haggard. In the dim starlight, she could see the circles beneath her hazel eyes, the tired lines bracketing her face. She looked like she hadn’t slept any more than Lore had, lately.
When the Night Priestess stepped forward, Lore moved back, keeping the distance the same between them. Her mother sighed.
“Why are you here?” Lore’s voice came out rough; she really should’ve found a glass of water. “What do you want?”
Eyes that matched her own stared her down. “I don’t…” Her mother trailed off, her lips pressing into a line. She looked away, as if she’d find the words she lacked somewhere in the garden.
“You lost,” Lore hissed. “Don’t you get that? Whatever doomsday prophecy you and Anton and the others believed in, it was a lie. I’m alive, and the world hasn’t ended.”
“Endings take their time,” her mother murmured, still not looking at her.
Lore swallowed, hard.
The Night Priestess kept her distance, not coming any closer. With a sigh, she made eye contact again, though it seemed to pain her. “You think you know why I’m here. You don’t.”
“Shut up.” Lore shook her head, clenched her fists at her sides. The ridges of her scar rubbed together painfully. “It’s over. You won’t convince me to die.”
“I’m not trying to,” her mother said. “I came here to stop you.”
Lore’s mouth was already open, ready for a poisonous retort. She snapped it closed, teeth ringing together. She’d had the dream, woken up, started wandering. The voice in her head, whispering catacombs, the one she’d thought was her own subconscious picking through the events of the day…
“You felt the call,” the Night Priestess murmured. “We felt it go out. Things are coalescing, Lore. Time is short. You have to go.” The last word seemed forced out, as if her throat had tried to close around it. “You have to run.”
A sharp breath of humid, flower-tinged air; it almost felt too thick to breathe. “What are you playing at?” Lore wrapped Bastian’s robe more tightly around herself despite the heat. “Three weeks ago you wanted me to die, and now you want me to run? You think that will cover up the fact that you’re wrong, that your whole religion is based on lies? There’s no apocalypse coming, Night Priestess—”
“Lilia,” her mother whispered.
“And even if there was—” But the name barreled into her, crumpled Lore’s words together like a carriage crash.
