He might have wallowed for the entire week, but a confluence of previous engagements and poor fortune prevented it. He had to pick up an order of textiles from Sorcha.
She was sitting behind her till darning a pair of dungarees when he arrived. At the sound of his entry, she hardly looked up. On the counterlay the folded yards of fabric he’d ordered, but seeing them, he realized they would be too heavy to carry in his current state. His throat went dry.
“There you are,” Sorcha said, pointing with her chin.
Caught between the carving knife of her mood and the immovable weight of the fabric, he went to try. He knew the second he’d wedged his arms under the pile it would be impossible.
“I… don’t think I can lift it,” he said.
Sorcha put down her darning. “I suppose you’ll want me to fetch him?”
He winced. “How is he?”
“I’m not to speak of it. He isn’t here, so I’ll let him know to deliver it, shall I?”
“No, I’ll just take it in trips—”
“Don’t trouble yourself. You’re touched by God he’s better tempered than I am. Just go.”
He took the bolt from the top of the pile and left.
Though the fabric was chiffon and light, it increased in weight with each step. Briar reached his shop with numb arms and a pounding head. It was less than he deserved.
Vatii, unusually merciful, did not agree. She thought Sorcha’s behavior was unfair, and proclaimed this loudly all the way home, where Briar fell into an unintentional nap.
After waking, he unraveled the new fabric and cut the pattern for the bodice of a dress. He got out his embroidery hoop and stitched yellow flowers into the creamy blue chiffon. It would be a summery dress at odds with the snow pillowing outside, but with so little time left to him, all work seemed strange anyway.
He appraised the ribbon wrapped around his lamp. He could distract himself with projects as much as he liked, but he would have to face Gretchen eventually. Getting up, he went to unlace the ribbon. It fell away, and the glowing runes vanished, dispelled.
“Gretchen?”
Silence answered. He waited. She did not appear.
He would sulk too in her position. With naught else to do, he returned to embroidery. Not an hour into it, he’d made good progress, even felt a thrill at his own accomplishment. His phone buzzed a couple times while he tied off the threads of a flower stem.
Then it buzzed again. Again. Over and over, buzzing as if primed to detonate.
He leaned to pick it up and nearly dropped it at the sight of his Alakagram notifications. He’d received no less than two thousand in the span of a few minutes. Flicking open his phone, he checked what had prompted the sudden influx.
Linden had tagged him in a post. It was the first on Briar’s feed—a photo Linden must have taken while they’d been cuddling and Briar fell asleep. His hair shone bright in the television’s blue light, however his eyes bore dark circles from his days spent bedridden from the curse. And he was wearing his fairy pajamas, so faded after ten years of washing that the pattern was barely distinguishable. Linden smiled into the camera, eyes half lidded, as though he’d fallen asleep too and only awoken to take the photo on impulse. The caption read:
He looked too cute not to. Can you guess our secret announcement??
A wave of flattery and indignant fury came over Briar. What secret announcement? Why hadn’t Linden asked before posting that? They were courting, yes, but they’d never discussed going public. The comments were a wash of congratulations and engagement ring emojis. Also, a few less-generous remarks about Briar. He did look haggard, but he was ill.
He tapped out a message to Linden, then erased it and typed out another, then erased that, too. He gave up and called but hit voicemail.
A rattling anxiety vibrated in his chest. He should be rejoicing, but instead he felt as though strangers had set up camp in his private bed of mourning and blown party horns in his ears. As he snapped his phone shut, it continued buzzing until he disabled Alakagram’s notifications. He grabbed his coat.
Linden’s shop assistant turned the color of a tomato at the sight of him. She’d clearly seen the post and recognized him. She didn’t ask if he had an appointment, just let him bluster through.
Briar paused abruptly at the sound of Linden’s voice, pitched loud enough to hear on the sixth stair.
“I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours who I court—yes, court! ‘Fuck,’ you say. You chastise me for ‘fucking peasants,’ but you have a peasant’s tongue.”
He spat each word. Briar’s rocketing nerves spiked. Linden’s parents would have seen the Alakagram post as well. Linden didn’t bother correcting them on the current state of their physical relationship, either.
“If it is our family’s reputation that concerns you, perhaps you should look to yourself for the sort of example you set! Regardless, it’s done now.It can’t be taken back, not unless you can call upon a miracle to wipe ten million memories, which you obviously cannot. Now, I’m busy workingactualmiracles so, with no respect, as you aren’t due any,goodbye.”
