Page 55 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

And far more dangerous to let them fuel your dreams.

Young ladies shouldn’t even entertain such thoughts. However, as the chickens clucked outside the window, Bryndis awoke and climbed out of the bed she’d slept in. It wasn’t her bed, for hers was far larger; it belonged to a boy. A boy with red hair like autumn leaves and freckles across his face. That boy also wore a blackened eye.

To her, Declan was more than just any boy; he was her everything. He was more than a friend; he was her chosen family, her confidant, and now her steadfast protector. Thoughtfully, she observed him, sound asleep in the desk chair on the other side of his cosy bedroom, deliberating whether to disturb his slumber or leave him be. A soft snore escaped his slightly parted lips, which amused her enough to smile. A sharp, pounding sensation pulsed through her head with the slightest movement, serving as a harsh reminder of the chaotic events that had transpired the night before. Her stomach fluttered with a nauseous sensation she couldn’t quite explain.

As she crossed the wooden floor on the balls of her delicate feet, the rustling of papers pinned to the walls drew her attention. Rows upon rows of paper fluttered like butterfly wings in the light breeze blowing from the window beside his bed. Rows and rows of sketches, all of her. They weren’t full portraits, but little fragments from his memory. The first was merely the corner of her mouth curving into a soft smile. Then one of her braid falling over her shoulder. One depicted her oddly pigmented eye, swirling in both light and dark as the charcoal tried to show the difference in colour. Then the red verbena in her hair and the buttons on her favourite dress.

Bryndis couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the sight. Each one captured a small piece of her that she hadn’t noticed before. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and gently touched one sketch. It was a drawing of her laughing, her eyes sparkling with joy. The lines were delicate, yet full of life, as if Declan had somehow captured her essence in a few strokes of charcoal.

Tears welled in Bryndis’ eyes as she realised how deeply Declan cared for her. Not only was he her closest friend, but he saw her in a way that no one else did. He saw the beauty in her imperfections, the magic in her ordinary moments. Selfishly, she clung to the idea of him loving her, even if she didn’t return his feelings. The thought crossed her mind that if he truly loved her and went above and beyond to keep her safe, maybe she wasn’t as unwanted as she’d convinced herself all those years after her mother’s passing.

A whirlwind of emotions engulfed Bryndis, a storm of gratitude, affection, and fear. As she looked at the boy’s bruised face, she could sense his feelings surpassing mere friendship. The sight of his love for her was undeniable. Yet, she hesitated to fully embrace it, unwilling to expose her vulnerability. The thought of him leaving her, rejecting her, or being snatched away, haunted her, and she was left with nothing but the torment of her nightmares. Despite Declan’s charm and kindness, Bryndis struggled to envision a future beyond their platonic bond.

With a heavy heart, Bryndis reluctantly tore her gaze away from the intricate sketches, their delicate lines etched into her memory. She glanced back at Declan, his peaceful form still sound asleep in the worn chair, the rhythmic sound of his gentle breathing filling the room. The faint scent of old books and ink lingered, mingling with the hint of sadness that enveloped her. As she quietly made her way back to the bed, longing coursed through her. She knew she had to maintain her distance, to shield both herself and Declan from the impending storm. Their friendship was a treasure she cherished, and the mere thought of losing it was unbearable. So, she would continue to play the role of ignorance until she believed it to be true.

She lay on the musty, unfamiliar bed, the rough fabric scratching against her skin, for what felt like endless hours before a sudden creak pierced the silence behind her. Slowly, as if in a dream, she heard the soft padding of footsteps inching closer. The anticipation made her heart race, and she closed her eyes.

“Bryn?” His voice, gravelly and hoarse from sleep, rumbled next to her as he settled down on the worn mattress, causing it to sag slightly beneath his weight. She struggled to maintain the facade, for it was difficult to deceive her dear friend.

“Declan?” Her voice emerged in a croaky whisper. She rubbed her tired eyes, pretending it was the first time she’d opened them. His brows furrowed with worry, lines etching his face.

“Can you get up? Do you feel well enough to walk?” His voice was barely audible, as if afraid of being overheard. He glanced anxiously at the bedroom door, his concern palpable.

“I-I think so,” she stammered, her confusion evident in her trembling voice. She looked as though she could barely muster the strength to sit up.

“I need to get you back home before anyone notices you gone,” he whispered urgently, his voice tinged with anxiety. As he took her hand, she felt the warmth of his touch and the strength in his grip. With a gentle arm wrapped around her back, he supported her as they stepped into the cosy living room of his small home.

Looking out the door, he scanned the surroundings, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for any signs of his parents. The room was filled with silence, interrupted only by the faint sound of a distant rooster crowing. The air carried a hint of hay and earth, a reminder of the livestock his mother tended to.

“We don’t have much time,” he murmured, his words laced with insistence. Bryndis’ heart raced in response.

“We can’t be seen,” she reminded him, as if he hadn’t considered the consequences before bringing her to his room, as if he hadn’t carefully weighed the potential outcome in his mind when prioritising her safety above all else.

He scooped her into his arms, the weight of her ball gown pressing against him like a blanket of pale gold. The rustle of skirts enveloped them as he carried her toward the back entrance of the grand manor. The scent of her perfume, a delicate floral fragrance, mingled with the musty air of the old estate. Her petite frame nestled against him, fitting perfectly in his embrace.

As he set her back down, her dainty feet touched the doorstep, and the coolness of the stone seeped through the soles of her shoes. Her delicate hand, adorned with a silk glove, wrapped around the ornate doorknob. Turning to face him, her eyes met his with determination. “Declan, will you teach me to fight?”

His laughter erupted, a deep rumble that threatened to reveal them. Quickly suppressing it, he replied, “You? Fight? I would only hurt you, Bryn.” The disappointment on her face pierced his heart like a sharpened blade. In that fleeting moment, he grasped her hand, halting her retreat. His touch, warm and reassuring, sent a wave of comfort through her.

“I can teach you archery and strategy,” he offered, his smile radiating warmth and sincerity. “Those skills are safe enough for a lady.” Her heart swelled with gratitude at his promise.

From that day forward, every afternoon became a time for instruction. The twang of the bowstring, the precision of her aim, and the satisfying thud as her arrows found their mark resonated within the walls of the stables. Safely tucked away, she honed her skills, becoming an accomplished archer who could strike her target with unwavering accuracy, even from the sanctuary of her own chambers overlooking the courtyard below.

TWENTY-SEVEN

BRYNDIS ASHGLO

While the juniper plant itself symbolises fertility, its berries are used in spells of luck. Wear juniper berries in pouches stitched to your clothes, or string them like beads around your arm or neck for protection against ill fortune.

The Herbal Healer’s Handbook, by Agnes O’Connell

The air is thin and crisp, and with each breath, a chill seeps into my lungs. I wrap my cloak tighter around myself, covering my nose with its thick mustard-yellow wool. The valley below seems like an abyss, its depths shrouded in darkness, with the occasional glimmer of moonlight reflecting off the distant river. On the far end of the valley is an encampment surrounded in a blanket of mist. Flickers of firelight contrast the darkness as distant laughter echoes through the valley.

“Where are we?” I ask Aed.

“We are standing on the mountain range of Eldercliff, off the border of the Fómhar Court, still within Samhradh’s territory.”

Despite the freezing conditions, I’m the only one bundled up to ward off the cold. The biting chill doesn’t seem to bother the others, which makes me glare at them while I hide my human frailty as best I can. Unlike back home, I’m vulnerable and without the remedies I use to treat my weak lungs.