Page 55 of May: Bloom & Bane

He reaches into the fold of his cloak and pulls out a large bundle wrapped in heavy, indigo silk and sets it on the island. As the silk falls away, it reveals a set of wooden brushes, jars of pigments that shimmer like crushed jewels, and a stack of thick, cream-colored canvases.

Therael gestures to Eden.

“For me?” she whispers.

“For you.” He nods. “Because the hands often remember the shape of the soul long after the mind has let it go. Paint what you see, Eden. Even if it makes no sense.”

I watch him watch her. Pain and happiness spread across his face at the same time.

Eden reaches toward the bottom of the pile, pulling out a jar of rosy-pink pigment. “This one,” she whispers, “is beautiful. Thank you, Therael.”

His hand clamps around her wrist. The air in the kitchen turns freezing, the copper kettle frosting over in an instant.

“Let her go!” My wings snap open, and the skin on the left side of my body begins to disappear, replaced by vorí.

I don’t care if he’s one of the pillars that holds up this world. I will end him.

Therael doesn’t even spare me a glance; his eyes stay locked on Eden. She gives me a sympathetic look, her eyes pleading for me to stand down.

“Why?” he rasps. “Out of all the colors in the Ømnaras‡… did you reach for this one?” (Heavens)

Are you really going to let him keep his filthy hands on our mate? Ashán spits.

She looks down at where his hand is wrapped around her wrist, then up into his supplicant eyes.

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “It just reminded me of roses, and something told me… this one would be your favorite.”

The silence that spreads through the room is deafening.

His grip loosens, and his fingers slide off her skin as if they’ve been burned. He recoils and stumbles back until his back slams into the counter.

He glances at the jar of rose-colored paint one last time.

“I-I will be outside to start your first lesson, Sage,” he says as he rushes out the door.

My hand rests on the small of her back.

“Are you okay?” I smooth my other hand over her hair. “What was that?”

“He’s been hurt, Sage. I could feel this… excruciating pain when he touched my wrist.”

“Give me a few moments before you come outside,” I murmur against her hair.

She pulls back enough to read my face. “Don’t hurt him, Sage. He’s already hurting enough.”

“You have my word, Saevúra.”

I press a kiss to her temple and step outside. Therael is standing at the edge of the meadow, with his back to me. The grass beneath his bare feet is cycling through its whole lifespan in quiet loops.

“You dared to touch my mate.”

He doesn’t turn around.

“I did.”

“You grabbed her wrist hard enough to leave a mark, and now you’re standing here expecting me to learn from you?”

My wings flare wide, the left one still partially vorí at its edges.