Page 122

In an effort to stifle the strange melancholy that plagued him, Oleander spent most of his days in his bedroom with books he’d borrowed from one of the Academy libraries. He buried himself in his research for the potion he’d vowed to develop with Perine, even though she was no longer there to help.

He didn’t want to think about Wisteria leaving him. He refused to remember having had and lost Perine. And he adamantly avoided noticing that Hemlock was shutting down more than he ever had before. Oleander was so lonely it felt like a knife slowly slicing into his gut, a jagged ache he couldn’t shake.

When Oleander finally had to submit the project, it was like handing in the last remnants of his time with Perine. He’d sent their finished paper with Brennessel in the end, putting it into her sage green hands before crawling back into bed to wallow some more.

He hadn’t created any new potions, he’d given Perine all the ingredients that he’d collected ages ago. Instead, he’d been forced to offer theoretical options for how such potions could be created. Brennessel had read through their findings and had told them it was more than enough to ensure that their names were now forever published together. Most importantly, it was enough that Perine’s name was officially published despite it all. Maybe she’d never know that she achieved her little dream. But he would know, and someday he’d find a way to tell her.

A hollowness festered inside of him, a dreadful ache that lingered. He no longer had anything to distract himself from his emotions, and he felt himself being slowly strangled by them.

Eventually he decided to lean into his sorrow, to let the memories wash over him so that maybe… he could begin to move forward with his life.

That’s when the dreams started. He’d awaken to the ghost of Perine laying on his chest, just as they’d lain tangled together the night of Wisteria’s party. He'd barely let himself breathe, then—not wanting to ruin the tender quiet that had wrapped itself around them.

He imagined himself going to the next major religious ceremony just to catch a glimpse of her. In a room full of beings, he’d find her. Maybe he’d even stand next to her when they both Ascended.

And then, he’d remind himself, he’d have to watch her promptly be mated to Valus. Fucking Hell.

It made him want to tear his skin from his body. Rip his horns from his head. Carve his heart from his chest and hold it in his fist, golden blood dripping down. He imagined himself seething, glaring down into her lavender eyes and forcing her to look at it. To see what she had done to him.

Oleander wondered bitterly if she would truly ever look at him as if he had been only a research partner. He never could. She had cauterised his every wound, leaving him covered with Perine-shaped scars. She was written over every part of himself that he had begun to admire. How was he supposed to move on from this?

He forced himself to put everything behind him and concentrate on what he could control—on what was right in front of him.

Mostly.

In the evenings, as the soft tangerine glow of sunset cast long shadows over their living room, the brothers sat together knitting quietly by the bay windows. They rarely talked, and even then it was only of the simplest things. They’d never learnt the language of shared sorrow. Even still, there was a calm sort of comfort at least in being together.

Oleander’s scarf was nearly finished, the delicate pattern of his work showcased perfectly by the fog-grey colour he’d chosen. It made him want to smugly show Perine so she could understand that his taste in yarn colour was superior. It made him want to give it to his sister, maybe if she’d had a bit more protection, she’d still be here. He couldn’t help the stray drops of misery that slipped from his face only to be absorbed in the silky grey strands.

He’d written to Perine. Both short notes and long letters telling her that she only had to say so and he’d find a way to her. He sent her letters on the wings of the aviary post; he found a spell that would disguise a note as a flower until the recipient held the petals in their hands. He found a candle that once lit would unfurl into an elaborately scrolled message. Every letter was the same if only sometimes worded more eloquently or occasionally dangerously close to begging.

But always the heart was the same: Just say the word, I will come for you.

Everything he sent found its way back to his own trembling fingers. Unopened. Unlit. Still bound by the magic he’d enchanted it with. When he asked Brennessel if she’d reached Perine, she’d only given him a curt shake of her head. It seemed that she was also blocked from reaching her friend.

Asmodeus had raised his sons to believe that masculinity meant remaining stoic, even as their hearts were being torn apart. They had never cried when their mother went mad, and they wouldn’t cry over the loss of their sister. It was too deeply ingrained in them. Neither of them knew how to handle their emotions—only how to push them down, to pretend they didn’t exist.

But in the silence of the night, after the house had gone still, Oleander allowed himself to be swallowed whole by his grief. Wrapped tightly in his blankets, he sobbed until his body shook, his chest aching with the weight of it. The hole in his heart felt endless, and nothing could fill it.

It was then that he missed Perine the most. It would have been nice, in those moments, to have someone—someone who truly understood the weight of it all—to hold him, to let him cry without the shame. Fuck. Why had he kissed her? Why had they ever touched? Even still, he could feel her curls in his hands, the memory leaving a brokenhearted ache that cut deep into his bones.

It left him lonelier than before they’d even become friends.

One nice thing about having a Deaf brother was the freedom to sob as loudly as needed without him ever being the wiser. This small comfort had eased Oleander’s heart—if nobody heard him cry, then it didn’t really count. That was, until one night, when he heard the soft footsteps of one of Hemlock’s lovers sneaking into his brother’s room. After that, Oleander cried more quietly.

Hemlock didn’t sign much anymore, but despite the blanket of silence that had fallen over the brothers, he still cared for Oleander tenderly. He ordered meals with specific intention—spicy ramen, toasted egg sandwiches, potatoes mashed with herbs, and fresh fish—foods that nourished the body as well as the soul. He created cocktails and magical teas, his movements gentle as he pushed each new drink into Oleander’s hands.

More often, Oleander thought of the book he’d given Wisteria that had led to her escape. It weighed so heavily on his thoughts that after a particularly restless night he decided to check—to take back the book for himself.

He slipped into Wisteria’s home, easing the broken door open with a careful hand. Inside, the destruction hit him like a punch to the gut. The sanctuary she’d so carefully built was in shambles, leaving behind only traces of the love and care it once held. Pieces of her handmade pottery lay shattered, and paintings that were once her pride now hung crooked and torn. The grief hit sharp and sudden, but it was the sight of the untouched book on the table that snapped his focus back into place.

He moved towards it, his heart heavy with aching sorrow. As he lifted the book, a note fluttered from its pages, landing softly on the floor. Oleander’s hands shook as he unfolded it. The note read:

“Hemlock and Oleander,

(This book is enchanted to be seen only by you two)

If you’re reading this, then I am a tree nymph, and my plan was a success! I want to assure you that I am perfectly happy with my decision. I never wanted to sacrifice myself for anyone or anything, and I’ve been terrified for so long that I’d have to. Becoming a tree nymph will give me the freedom you know I’ve always craved.