When I was first in his home, I felt the distance between us as one would feel the distance between the self and a god. In his realm I made myself as small and unobtrusive as possible. But since returning, that distance felt—false, somehow. Or maybe I only felt it more keenly and resented it. I knew I was acting entitled and ungrateful—but perhaps I deserved to feel those things.
During a particularly warm afternoon I sat working on some cantrips in his quarters and found my eyelids drooping from the simmeringheat. I kept thinking of the keys, even in my sleep-addled mind. Where did he keep them now? How would I earn them back? I nearly hit my head on the desk, falling asleep. Pushing up, I closed the book with a slam. I could not keep on with these dry tomes that held no answers.
I had never dared to really explore inside the château, beyond what was assigned to me—but he’d cut me, bled me, and confessed over me—mourned me. And so I felt more entitled to my place. I had less fear of doing something to anger him.
Besides, there was no one here to see me but the quiet, heat-drenched stones.
I crossed the room to his bedchamber door.
I had glimpsed inside his private chambers a few times—when he was moving between the two rooms—and it seemed to me a regular bedchamber, if regular meant black walls and a bed and red silks. I’d never really dared think of it before, but now it bothered me almost as much as the keys that I was not allowed into his sanctum. That he guarded this so carefully. So possessively. I bore his scars, the proof of my devotion carved in my very skin. Did I not deserve that intimacy returned even a little?
The door was dark and heavy, and when I touched it, I was surprised to find it wrought of iron, only painted to look like wood and hung on fine hinges to seem light. I traced the lacquer and then, firmly, tried the knob.
It was locked.
Those damn keys. I cursed myself again for having lost them. Reckless and irritated, I leaned against the door, rubbing the anxious tension that crawled up my neck. Outside the window, the forest waited.
It had been weeks since I had been to the grove. I’d avoided it since my return, not wanting to explain to Perchta what had happened. Even with my legs covered, I was afraid she would know. I was afraid the forest would recoil againsthismarks like it did from his châteauand his courtyard. But looking into its cool, shadowy depths now, I decided I would steal to the grove. I would return by night. And maybe me leaving would call him back to me early.
I stopped in my room to exchange my slippers and call for Schneid, but he did not come. I did not want to go through the forest by myself, but with no other choice, I slipped out, through my garden and the tiny stone gate that led to the forest.
Once under the bower of those dark trees, I expected it to be cooler, but it only felt more stifling, with less air and more eyes, and a heavy sense of sadness that pricked at my chest. I tried not to let it bother me, and instead thought of the grove and its hut, bringing them firmly to the front of my mind to lead the way.
The forest had donned its summer darkness, underbrush thicker and twisted in the time since I’d last walked there. As I picked my way, I became suspicious that the forest was taking me on a route twice as long as normal. I passed a rushing mountain waterfall cascading between boulders that I had certainly never seen. The cool water spray was tempting, but I kept going—I was no longer a novice, and as long as I kept the grove in my mind, eventually the forest would surrender and deliver me there.
The heat pressed in on all sides, and the path wound through trees growing so tightly together that no sunshine reached the roots. Branches laced and twined with one another; one tree tangled up into the other with a thick stillness dancing in the gaps and crevices. I felt if I could look quickly enough, I’d spot some creature ready to catch me by the throat. But I heard Perchta in my head, telling me to make friends. Carefully, I touched one of the trees as I climbed over the roots and tried to reach out with my magic, but it felt strange and resistant. The cuts on my legs burned faintly. I did not know if they were at fault, but it felt like a veil had dropped between me and the forest, and I could not find my way through. Drained and wishing I’d just stayed at the château, I settled myself into the curve of a root and tipped myhead to the thick overstory. The wind sighed through the tops, and it seemed, after a moment, that we both took a long breath—the forest and me.
Magic moved here like the currents, deep and ancient. Only now could I sense it, and with that sense came the realization that I was always fighting against it. No wonder it felt combative. My fingers absently brushed the scars on the backs of my thighs. They felt foreign and strange, as if it wasn’t my body at all. I turned my thoughts back to the forest, and stood to continue—this time, trying to find my way along its ebbs and flows, rather than fighting. Not long after that, I found myself at the edge of the grove, sweaty and disgruntled.
Today, I did not have to cross through the abyss and light the fire, for Perchta was already there, bent over and tending to her gardens. Where things grew in a tight, ordered way in the château gardens, here, everything grew wild and wonderful, entangled in a lush chaos, but she knew exactly where everything was and where it should be. The sun was high, lighting the grove in thick beams of hazy, green sunshine.
“Perchta,” I called, stepping into the grove.
She lifted her head. Her hair was pulled off her face and sweat glistened on her brow, and for a moment, she did not seem so ancient. In fact she seemed beautiful, with a strangely captivating face and quick, knowing eyes, and I could not look away from her.
“Come here,” she answered.
I stepped forward, picking my way through the vegetation and the small footpath she had made.
“You can’t call for me right now,” she said. “So I have been waiting for you. Where have you been?”
I shook my head. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy doing what?” Her white-streaked hair was pulled back underneath a plain veil, and the air smelled sharp and hot and green.
I was both unable and unwilling to explain and instead pulled a stalk of grass through the tips of my fingers, until my silence was clear.“You remind me of the woman who raised me,” I said finally. “She was our village midwife.”
“Yes.” Perchta nodded. “Valerie.”
I startled. Wasthatwhy she was so familiar? Had she been with Valerie, some time when I was young? Did some part of me hold a memory of her? I straightened, my heart racing nervously. “You knew her.”
Perchta smiled to herself and slung the hoe into the ground. “Yes. I know all the wise women and witches.”
“I was so young when she … died.” My stomach turned, as it always did to remember her death.
Perchta kept working and did not respond. Did she know how Valerie died? Did she know I was responsible? I swallowed, remembering how the bandits appeared when I was with Dacia and the girls. “When I first met you, you said darkness was following me like a blood trail because I was bleeding magic. Am I still?”
“Yes,” she said without even needing to consider. “It’s lessened some, as you’ve learned the difference between yourself and everything else.”
