“What?”
Armand trudged through some shrubs and crouched down. “Emerald brittlegills.”
“You mean… those mushrooms?” Mallory eyed the large fungi with shiny green tops that grew from the side of the log.
“Not just mushrooms. These can help with a host of indigestion issues. They’re also highly valued for being a powerful aphrodisiac.” As soon as the word was out of his mouth, he flushed scarlet. “Not that I… I wouldn’t know… I’ve just heard rumors.”
Mallory put a knuckle between her teeth, fighting every instinct to keep from teasing him.
Lowering his head, Armand pulled a napkin and a small knife from a pocket, and there was a moment when Mallory wondered if she should be concerned that she was being led out into the forest with a boy, barely more than a stranger, who was secretly carrying a knife.
But when he cut the mushrooms from the side of the log and wrapped them up in the napkin as tenderly as one would wrap up a piece of cake, she found it impossible to be afraid.
Besides, he probably didn’t know about the knife she was carrying, either.
The path became more neglected the deeper into the forest they went. Armand stopped every few minutes to forage for nettles, berries, mullein, even mustard greens—plus more varieties of fungi than Mallory knew existed. He ran out of pockets and was immensely grateful when Mallory offered to carry the mushroom that resembled a rotting brain.
There was something about his enthusiasm that was unexpectedly endearing.
No, not just endearing. Mallory couldn’t quite fathom why, but she had never been so attracted to someone as when Armand waxed poetic about the poisonous properties of oleander.
“You do this often?” she said.
Armand paused from gathering a handful of wild violets. “Er… not as often as I wish. But I’m slowing us down. I promised to show you the graveyard.”
“I’m in no hurry. What do those do?” Mallory asked, nodding to the flowers.
“Oh—nothing at all. They just look nice.” He smiled crookedly. “I try to come foraging when I can, but managing the winery has taken up so much of my time this year. I missed the spring mallow harvest entirely.”
“Not the spring mallow harvest. How will you survive?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, eyes brightening. “There’ll be another opportunity at the end of fall.” He picked a few morestems, tucking them into his fist. “The herbs were helpful the other day?”
“Herbs?” She was thinking of purple-red syrup and hot chocolate, wondering what he might have tasted like that night…
When Armand gave her a peculiar look, she hastily shook the thought away. “Oh, those herbs! Yes. They were very helpful. They may not have eradicated the spirits in question, but they did…” She swirled her hand through the air in search of the right words, exuding confidence like a snail exuded slime. “Encourage the ghosts to consider secondary afterlife options.”
Armand blinked.
“It’s a process,” said Mallory, grateful when he did not press further.
They had not gone much farther when Mallory spotted the cemetery gate through the trees. It was hung in a stone archway that connected to a high stone wall, slick with moss and sprouting an entire hierarchy of mushrooms. A statue of Velos greeted visitors. A wren was perched on the carved lantern that hung from the god’s hand, trilling a discordantly cheerful song.
The gate screeched when Armand pulled it open.
Inside, the cemetery was everything a graveyard should be. Ancient and serene, smelling of earth and autumn winds and coming rains. The graves themselves were mostly marble slabs above the ground, carved with names and dates. Some were succumbing to moss, others to ivy. A patch of brambles was doing its best to creep in along the edges of the wall, stretching its thorny fingers for the nearest stones. There were tombstones with sorrowful poetry. Statues of winged fae and kneeling demons. Patches of tall grass that had recently gone to seed between the plots.
It was the most exquisite place Mallory had ever seen.
She scanned the stones as they meandered down one of the paths. Armand had been respectfully quiet since they’d entered, but now Mallory peered over at him. “I thought this was your family cemetery, but I do not recognize any of the names.”
“Most of these graves belong to the staff. Some choose to be buried in the cemetery outside of Comorre, but many prefer to be interred here. A lot of these are vineyard workers, but there are household and garden staff as well. My first governess is there.” He pointed to a stone that had been carved into the shape of an open book. “As for my family…”
He indicated a series of tall mausoleums in the distance.
“Will you show me?” she asked, starting toward them.
He pointed out the crypt that held the remains of his parents, and the one that contained the aunt who had raised him. She died the year before and was laid to rest beside her husband.
