“You’re not ready for that answer,” he bites out through tight lips and a stiff, almost unmoving jaw. “And for your own sake, I hope it stays that way.”
He drops my hand and spins, taking the goblet with him, leaving my arm hanging at my side and dripping water all over the ground. Like a cow who just got milked and has now been sent back to the field to regenerate her udder.
“Don’t forget again,” he growls, putting my needle on the tray and walking straight out the door, disappearing without a backward glance.
It’s a slap to the face.
“I can’t make any promises!” I yell. “I have a lot on my plate, you know!”
I hear him grunt, then nothing but heavy footfalls winding down Stony Stem. Once they fade, all I’m left with is a hollow silence dented by the rapid beat of my fragile heart.
Deflating, I stumble back, colliding with the wall ...
I gave in.
What’s more, I set the question free and got nothing but riddles and a verbal scalding in return. In fact, all I have to show for it is a sore finger and this lingering ache between my legs—one I try to ignore as I blow out my bedside candles and crawl into bed, robe and all, for what I hope will be a shadowless sleep.
It’s not.
I dream of giant creatures that bite into my skin, shake the life out of me, and send my blood splattering.
I dream of things that make my flesh their own.
Things that make mebreak.
Iwake drenched in sweat, hair plastered across my face. The fire is out, and it takes all my energy to peel the sheets back and roll out of bed.
Seems the hangover from a terrible night’s sleep is almost as bad as exo withdrawals.
The sky rumbles, loud and boisterous, making my mirror rattle against the wall. I rub sleep from my face and pace to the window, seeing shaded, high-hanging clouds preventing any light from filtering down.
Waking to a heavy sky that holds nothing but the promise of rain always leaves me feeling like an unoiled hinge.
I rinse the nightmares from my face, change into leather pants, a button-down, and a loose-fitting sweater, then weave my hair into a hurried braid while the bath tap fills my sprinkling can.
Fourteen seedlings nest on the windowsill above my painting station, drinking what they can of the low light. Their small clay pots are handmade, varnished with bold colors that pay tribute to the paint I’ll eventually make from some of their flowers.
I test the soil, dribble water where it’s needed, then step onto my balcony to tend the bigger ones camped against the wall beneath the overhanging roof on the western side.
“Look at you guys!” I splash their dirt, fawning over their bright green shoots and unfurling fronds. “You’re all doing so well! Exceptyou,” I mutter, crouching, narrowing my eyes on the fig tree that seems to sag every time I take my eyes off her. “Having another down day, I see.”
I give her a healthy dose of water and peer up at the rumbling clouds again, scrunching my nose. We both miss the sunshine, and by the looks of things, I doubt that’ll change any time soon.
I may have to graduate her to Sprouts before she goes and dies on me.
“Hang in there, Limp Leaf.”
I work my way around the curved balcony, past my box of herbs and the lemon tree I’ve been raising for the past five years. Its branches are laden with vibrant yellow fruit that will eventually be juiced and used as a preserving agent for my paints.
Next is my wisteria—the only plant that’s been here longer than I. It’s so large, it weaves through the balcony and down the tower’s edge, and can be seen from almost anywhere on the castle grounds.
I tend the flock of rose bushes yet to show their first bursts of color, then pause by the willow sapling I grew from a seed. Not only is willow bark an excellent pain reliever, I also love the way they mature from gangly saplings to such proud, majestic trees.
I crouch and check his roots, seeing them peeking out through the holes in the bottom of the pot ...
A smile fills my cheeks.
This isexactlywhat I needed to pull me from my funk.
