“Tell me your heart doesn’t feel as if it’s going to explode the second we’re in the same room.” His eyes frantically search mine, like he’s not above begging, like he needs to hear my thoughts more than he needs his next lungful of air. My mouth opens, but words fail me.
“I look for you around every corner, waiting to hear your laughter as I walk down each corridor. You are the brightest parts of my days and the deepest, darkest parts of my nights, Verena. You’re everything I’ve ever dreamt of, and I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you would be the ruin of me one way or another. I tried to spare myself, at first, because falling for you meant there was a chance of losing you, and with one glance, I knew that would be a loss I couldn’t bear, but fuck, you’re irresistible, little crow. So no, it’s not envy or pettiness that I feel towards the man you choose to spend your time with. It’s anger, because I know he’s not the one who deserves to have your heart. I do. You just haven’t figured that out yet.”
Loxen stares at me for a long moment, and I stare back, speechless. “Verena, I?—”
“Please, don’t,” I interrupt, begging him not to say the words, my eyes swelling with tears. Once he says them, he can’t take them back. I’ve lost everyone that I’ve ever loved, and I refuse to lose him, too. After a long moment of silence, sadness flickersover his features. He takes a step to the side, clearing the path for me to exit the doorway. My feet tell me to run, but my heart reaches for him, screaming for me to stay. God, I’m so fucking tired of running. It’s my default whenever things get difficult. But this? I can’t do this right now.
Loxen goes quiet, the room begins to spin, and I find myself looking around for anything to grab onto in case I collapse. I glance at Lox standing before me, holding his heart in his hands, and I run for the door, needing to get away from this moment, from the manor, from myself.
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter, avoiding his stare and slipping past him. Glancing back at him, his arms drop to his sides. The sight shatters my heart into a million tiny pieces, but I do what I’ve always been good at, and run.
I run, and run, and run, hurling myself out of the manor towards the forest’s edge, praying that my feet don’t fail me.
Branches whip against my arms as I push through the trees beyond the estate, towards the only place I can think of going to get away from it all and to give myself some space to think.
I wipe the tears that continue to streak down my face. Sadness, confusion, and frustration all twist inside of me so violently that the trees dance around me.
Loxen speaks as if Reed would hurt me. As if he’s a dangerous man. As if he’s not to be trusted. I’ve seen different sides of Reed over the past couple of months. Moments of unkindness to his peers, and moments of distrust with him keeping his secrets from me. But I’ve never had a reason to doubt Loxen.
He may be the most frustrating man I have ever met, the most mysterious and complicated person in existence. But he’s never given me a reason to doubt him, and that’s what scares me the most.
I press my back against a large oak tree, feeling my tired body slide down the bark until I’m one with the earth. Cricketschirping, the sound of a river nearby, and swaying branches from the breeze clash with my spiralling thoughts, sending me teetering off the edge of sanity. Pressing my palms firmly against my ears, the world around me goes quieter. Not completely, but enough to allow me to focus on the simple act of breathing. I tuck my head between my knees and suck in a breath of fresh air.
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
Minutes pass, though it feels like hours as I sit in the dirt, desperately trying to collect myself. It takes a lot longer for my panic attack to subside this time, but it eventually does. Once I no longer feel like I’m on the verge of hyperventilating, I set down my crow mask by my feet, rest against a large rock and pull my grandfather’s journal out from the inner pocket of my robe.
I settle in and read the final passage, hoping my grandfather’s words of wisdom can bring some clarity to my overcrowded mind.
Flipping to the last page, I’m disappointed to find only one line scribbled upon it.
The truth often lies behind the things that poison us.
I’m almost positive I’ve read this exact phrase before, in one of Ambrose’s letters. Heart sinking to my stomach, I lunge to my feet, taking off in a sprint towards the manor. Sprinting my way up the stairs, I head directly to my chest of drawers, in a search of desperation.
I empty three drawers full of clothing before I find the purple envelope buried at the bottom of one. My hands shake as I open it, and sure enough, there, at the bottom of the page, are those familiar words.
Remember, Verena, that the truth often lies behind the things that poison us.
Once I could ignore it, but twice? Twice meant he wanted it to be heard. But why?
I repeat the phrase over and over in my head and come up short for any sort of explanation.
Slamming my hands against the dresser in frustration, tears prickle the backs of my eyes.
“The things that poison us, the things that poison us, the things that poison?—”
That’s when I see it, the photograph of me as a child in my grandfather's arms. I run my thumb over the image, and a tear that I didn’t know I had left in me slips free. “I don’t know what to do, Ambrose,” I whisper. His office hasn’t changed a bit since this photo was taken. Dark oak desk with endless paperwork scattered over it, deep purple walls that give the space a sophisticated feel. Even the painting behind him is the same.
The things that poison us.It’s as if an electric current jolts through my body. It’s been right there, in front of me all along. My feet are moving before the rest of my body has time to catch up. How could I have been so blind?
Throwing the door open to Ambrose’s office, I stare up at the painting looming overhead. It’s always been right there, in plain sight. The serpent’s venom, dripping into the chalice, poisoning the wilting iris, my grandmother’s signature scrawled at the bottom. Pushing the large leather chair to the back wall, I use it as a stepping stool, carefully trying to find my balance on the cushion. The painting is bulky and difficult to remove on my own, but after finding just the right grip on the frame, it pulls loose, and I gently set it on the floor, leaning it against his desk.
There, hidden by my grandfather’s clever design, is a safe built within the wall. I stare at the dial, wondering how I’ll ever figure out the combination. From what I’ve read in his journals, Ambrose loved my mother more than anyone, so I spin the dial, trying my luck on her birthdate. My fingers linger over the handle for a moment, then I pull.
