“So angels are devils now? Shouldn’t they be ugly, horny things?” I tease, trying not to let my emotions show.
She chuckles. “Shut up. I’m an artist.”
“If every card is painted with half as much attention to detail, you’re my favorite artist of all,” I say in earnest, drifting closer, drawn to the card, to her.
I move in behind her to see over her shoulder, and the lush, earthy scent of her shampoo dries my tongue. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck rise at my closeness, and I ache for a body she could lean into—somewhere she could rest her head.
She clears her throat and reaches for the next card, revealing two sleeping lovers. Naked. Entwined.
The woman she painted is unmistakably herself. Her long red hair snakes over a bed of autumn leaves, a few strands gleaming copper and gold across her forehead and cheeks. Freckles dust her nose and cheeks, trail down her shoulders, and scatter across her bare chest, and her eyes are closed in the soft illusion of sleep. She appears to be sinking into the earth, rootsand twines cradling the contours of her body, claiming her inch by inch. The forest either means to protect her—or eat her alive. The soft curve of her waist and the gentle slope of her stomach lead into the elegant lines of her pale legs, one draped over her lover’s hips, the other stretched long across the leaves.
Her hand rests over the man’s heart.
Not in a possessive or timid way, exactly. Something between the two, like she’s holding the truth of him in her palm.
A small fire burns in her hand. A spark of desire. A flame meant only for him.
The man’s face is swallowed by shadow yet steeped in gold, every contour softened and obscured, as though she couldn’t bear to imagine him fully. Hallowed light covers their bodies in a sanctified, holy glow, and the entire card smolders. It isn’t merely sensual, but prophetic.
A wishful confession disguised as art.
“That’s the most beautiful one,” I breathe.
Her eyes dance. “You’ve only seen two.”
“I don’t need to see any more to know I love them.”Love you, I want to add. “You painted this deck with a piece of your soul, Max. It’s monumental.”
“I used to walk the trail up to Holyrood Park near the Edinburgh University library, kick off my shoes, and paint at the base of this beautifully skewed, gnarly hawthorn tree. A single card could take anywhere from one to four afternoons—so you do the math. All seventy-eight cards except for one. It took me months…”
“Why did you stop so close to the end?”
She shakes her head, pausing as if she’s just let slip a secret she once swore she’d never tell. “I guess I figured no one in this world would ever understand. I made a promise to myself, on that last day, never to return. Never to finish the last card.”
“Why?” I whisper, my voice heavy with grief.
Heat climbs up her throat, vivid as spilled wine. “Because I’m no Faerie princess, and there’s no Fae prince waiting for me. I was being naïve. Now, let’s go back to your reading.”
Something happened that day, something she doesn’t want to share.
She flips the third card.
Death.
It’s not represented as a skeleton, or a reaper, but a beautiful man who looks eerily similar to the one she was embracing in the previous card. An angel of death, with no wings this time, his platinum-blonde hair falling in bright, cold strands around his strong jaw.
Freckles of ice dust his cheeks, and he looks…sad.
Max studies the card longer than she should. Her fingers hover above it, brushing the outline of that sorrow. Her throat tightens on a tiny groan she tries and fails to hide.
“Death. That’s me, right?” I ground out. “That’s what I am.”
Her lashes flutter. She leans back to brush against me—not fully, not consciously—but enough that I know how close we are to crossing the line she drew between us. That friendship palisade she raised is already crumbling.
I press my ethereal lips to her pulse point, and goosebumps rise along the sensitive skin of her neck.
“You’re doing it again,” she scolds.
“What?”
