My throat tightened and tears slid out of my eyes.
I loved Dacia with all my heart, but I knew, had known all along, I was too dark, too terrible to be loved by anything as human andgoodas Dacia. I might have saved us, but by revealing my true self, I had destroyed who we’d been.
The men came back and bundled us up again onto the horses, but I did not care what they did with me. We rode for what felt like hours, and I insisted on watching from the forest as Dacia was delivered to the village, watching as she disappeared through the gates, before they turned the horses and we rode deep into the forest.
I was shoved off the horse not far from the pools. A mixture of blood and wine and honey trickled down my legs to my ankles and I felt weak and sweaty again. But I was in no danger. I knew I could make it back to Renaud—and it was the only place I wanted to go.
I did not know if I would be welcomed back. He had no need of me or use of me. But I understood it now. There was no place for me without his power. I would get on my knees and beg him if he asked. Those men had thought they could possess me until I had showed them who I was in Death’s house. If I could not have peace or love or happiness, then I would have power.
It was easy to keep him fixed in my mind, and I began to walk through the darkening forest. It was nightfall when I finally made it to the château’s courtyard—and there I froze.
He sat on the grand steps. His hair mussed. In the same clothes as the day before. I saw him before he saw me, and in that moment, I knew I had done the right thing to return. He looked broken. Distraught. As if he’d been worrying about me all night and day. I stepped forward, and he must have heard me, for his liquid dark eyes found mine and his whole body stiffened as if suddenly choked with hope.
I could not remember why I had run. I could not remember anything he’d ever done to hurt me. He was no longer just Lord Death—for I had named the darkness and the darkness had claimed me. I ran for his arms. His hands, gloveless, closed over my hair and my shoulders and gathered me close, mouth opening hungrily on mine.
XXIII.
Threads of Truth
The balance between me and Renaud shifted after that night. I had left and returned and walked back over the threshold of his home by my own free will. In that, I found a little of my own power. I don’t think Renaud had truly thought I could do any of those things, and he seemed to change in the wake of that brief loss. That night he gathered me off the steps and carried me to my bed. Over the course of the next two weeks, he devoted his time to tending to me.
Twice a day he changed my bandages and cleaned my wounds. Three times a day he fed me. I laid like a baby in his arms. Every evening, he poured me wine and talked with me like we had before. When I would start to drift off, he would smooth my hair away from my forehead and whisper his apologies, his regrets, his sorrows, his troubles into the skin of my hand or my neck and sometimes into my thighs. I relished holding his confessions on my body. When I woke in the middle of the night from dreams of Dacia, he was there instantly to soothe me. We lived those two weeks in a persimmon-tinted cloud of unspoken passion. It was enough to make me wish to be injured and broken forever.
Schneid showed up at the end of the two weeks. I caught him skulking around the door and lured him back inside with scraps. It wasn’t his fault I couldn’t control my magic and tore through the mountains on a branch. The hellcat rubbed his horns against the edge of my bedwith a terrible grating noise that made me want to stop up my ears and then disappeared into the curtains. But I felt better to have him there with me.
At night I would reach behind me and run my fingers along the scars on the backs of my thighs. They felt strange and twisted, and I had not seen them in the light of waking day. One afternoon I stood in front of the uncanny mirror and lifted my skirt. Craning my neck, I faced the fresh white lines. I did not recognize the symbols, but they felt familiar somehow.
Maybe I should have felt horrified, but instead a strange pleasure pooled in my stomach. Renaud had etched a secret message, a brand of some kind, onto my body. It was a sign of possession and adoration. A talisman of what I had long felt—I was marked by Death.
Slowly things fell back into their normal routine. Once I was recovered, I resumed my work in Renaud’s chambers. I missed his attentive care but tried not to show it. I waited for him to come to me, to show me some sign of love, to fuck me even, but he stayed at a respectful distance always. As we had been. Even that seemed to be care from him—for if he’d pressed, I would have felt like a whore, when what I wanted, suddenly, was to feel like a bride. Not because I longed to behisbride, but because I longed for the formality of such a relationship. I longed to be chosen in such a way.
So I waited. The summer heat began to build. I kept waiting.
One morning, Renaud left again.
I solemnly agreed to continue my studies. I promised not to enter his bedchamber. I assured him I would watch over the estate. Then I took a deep breath to shore up my courage and made a request.
“Can you deliver a message for me?”
He stilled and tilted his head. “To whom, ma petite chou?”
“My friend, Dacia. I want her to know I’m all right.” And to say goodbye.
There was a long pause, and something in me froze. Would he deny me this request?
But he did not. His expression softened and he plucked a leaf of parchment off his desk and handed it to me. “I don’t usually deliver such messages. But for you, of course.”
I swallowed my relief, taking the parchment and plucking the quill out of my ink. Quickly, I scratched out a message, reassuring Dacia, telling her I was sorry and that I had been born cursed—that she needed to forget me. I wanted to ask if the bandits had done anything to help her but hesitated and asked instead if any more girls had gone missing. I had not yet worked up the courage to ask Renaud about the missing girls, but I did not know why. I folded the parchment and handed it to him.
“Where do I find this Dacia?”
“She is a prostitute at the Blue Moon.”
He tucked the letter into his cloak and then kissed my forehead. He had been so tender with me since that night. I longed to reach out and beg him to stay. But I would not shame myself and kept my hands at my sides.
He left.
THE FIRST DAY PASSED SLOWLY WITHOUT HIM. ISPENT MOSTof it in the garden, pulling weeds and touching all my herbs and reassuring myself that nothing would change. Thinking and planning for his return. But as each day passed, my anxiety increased.
