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“No,” I said. “You’ve done enough. I should never have come. I’ve put you all in danger—”
“You don’t need to worry about us,” Jessamine said.
“They’ll come back, you know.” I shivered.
“And we’ll figure it out when they do. Look! I brought something.” She took a bottle out from behind her back. “I saw you’d opened it—thought it would be a shame not to finish it. Shall we?”
I laughed a little and nodded. At the very least, it might help me fall asleep.
She took a long swig and then handed the bottle over. “Have you ever heard how the sombersweet flower came to be?”
I shook my head again, and she took the bottle from me. “When I was little, my grandmother would take me with her on herb-collecting ventures to the Ebonwilde, and she’d tell me old feral-magic stories to keep me from getting bored on the way.”
“Have you ever attempted it?” I asked. “Feral magic?”
Jessamine shook her head. “No, not me. The only magic I know how to work is between the sheets.” My cheeks blazed, and she gave a lovely, throaty laugh, handing me the bottle. “We all have our talents.”
I took another long, slow draft; it felt like swallowing tiny, fizzing sparks of honey. “So, what was the story? How was sombersweet created?”
“Well, the story goes that Mother Earth and Father Time fell in love.”
I froze, immediately thinking of Simon’s book. Jessamine was taking a sip and didn’t notice my stillness.
“And together, they created all the living things of the earth. But with each new creation, the Mother grew weaker, until she knew she had enough immortality—life, or spark, or divinity, whatever you want to call it—for one more creation. A flesh-and-blood daughter.”
This was the same tale as the one in Simon’s book now lying hidden behind a wall in Cesare’s study; I hadn’t gotten to finish it before the coronation began.
Had that been only that afternoon?
“. . . And her tears became a jewel,” Jessamine was saying, “and her joy became a flower, and she threaded them together to make a bell.”
I felt as meek as a child. “And then what happened?”
“Well . . . the Mother died. And the last of her spark burst into a thousand bits of light that nestled into the ground and became seeds. When the seeds took root in the soil, they grew into flowers in the shape of the bell she left for her daughter. Sombersweet.” Jessamine lifted the bottle. “Said to have many magical properties—but most of all, it is supposed to allow us to see, within each living being, the spark given to us by Mother Earth herself.”
I took another deep drink, letting the story and the spirits settle into my soul.
“I’ve never seen any ‘spark’ myself,” Jessamine admitted. “But, magical life light notwithstanding, wine does have other marvelous properties.”
“Such as . . . ?”
Jessamine gave an impish smile. “It can help make us brave.” She stood, leaving the not-quite-empty bottle on the floor beside the washbasin. Faux-innocently, before closing the door behind her, she added, “Lorelai left her room unlocked. Just in case.”
9
I had to drink the rest of the wine before I felt even the littlest bit brave.
When the bottle and the last of my excuses were finally spent, I took a deep breath and stepped into the darkened hall. Two hours to midnight, and the Quiet Canary was terribly still; the Tribunal’s visit had scared most of the tavern’s customers onto the road or into bed. The only light was the soft glimmer coming from under the door of the last room on the right.
The door, of course, was unlocked.
Zan was sitting on the windowsill, drawing something on Lorelai’s stationery. “Aurelia?” he asked, looking up in surprise.
Was that a glimmer of gold under his skin? Perhaps the sombersweet story was true after all. Or perhaps I’d just drunk too much wine and had begun seeing things.
“Aurelia, about what I said—” he began, setting his sketch aside.
“Stop talking,” I commanded. His eyes wandered over me, and I was suddenly aware of the flimsiness of my nightgown and how delicately it clung to my chest and hips, just translucent enough to hint at the shape of my body beneath it.
