“Like ivy.”
That night,when we sit for dinner, I tell the Monster.
Not everything. Just enough. That Eli makes the garden feel different. Like he belongs here just as I do.
The Monster is quiet, too quiet. And my chest clenches under my clothes. It slices the bread like it’s slicing through a decision, precise.
“You’re young,” it says finally, and I frown a little.
“I’m seventeen. Eighteen in a few months,” I answer.
“You don’t know what you’re weaving.”
I bristle. “But that’s the point of learning. To make my own patterns.”
The Monster’s hands still. “You arenotready.”
“I’m not asking to marry him,” I say, harder than I intended, then instantly regret it.
A pause. “But you want to go beyond the grounds. That’s just as dangerous.”
I glance down at my hands. “He wants to show me the river.”
“The river will not unmake itself if you don’t see it tomorrow.”
“But—”
“No.”
The word lands heavy. I have never heard it use that word before.
“I’ve kept you safe,” it says. “All these years. I’ve sheltered you from the worst of this world. You think it’s kindness, what he offers? You think it’s harmless?”
My heart skips.
“Eli is good!” I answer, pushing to my feet.
The Monster doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.
“You are acting reckless, Agnes. That’s dangerous for someone so close to fate.”
We stare at each other, then I storm out of the room.
The next morning, I go anyway.
I wear my cloak with the petal-stains. The spindle charm thrums beneath my collarbone, fast as a rabbit’s heart. I bring the book he gave me. I carry it like a promise.
The garden is warm. The lilacs blush. The thyme is awake.
But Eli is not there.
I climb the wall and wait.
And wait.
I walk the perimeter, search the corners of the forest with my eyes.
Nothing.
