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I ache for him in a lot of ways these days.
The press of lips. A bottle of alcohol. Two boys kissing in secret, one full of bitter rage, the other as innocent as he is lost.
I screw my eyes shut and yank my hood tighter and tighter, as though to force out every memory of that terrible night. By now, my hood masks most of my face until the only thing not wrapped in waterproof material is my eyes.
“We’re going through the woods?” I ask nervously as Captain Porthos tears through the trees, chasing a small brown rabbit. I try to ignore the symbols of the royal crest, of the rabbit and the blood-red dove… I try to ignore the last time I spent any significant length of time in the Lochkelvin forest, with images of my body… my body…hanging…
“Yes.” Rory’s voice is hard but his eyes soften slightly as he notes my hesitation. Rain slides down his face from his flat cap. “This isn’t Lochkelvin forest. There is no magic here, only nature.”
He proceeds into the woods as though the matter is resolved, peeling back branches and bracken to edge deeper.Magic. He thinks there’s magic at Lochkelvin. Still, I pause on the very edge of the woods. I tell myself to get a grip. There’s daylight. At least there’s daylight.
“You’re going to have to get over this, little saint, if you want to be strong.” Rory’s singsong voice drifts through to me, and as irritating as his lack of compassion is, he’s right. I know he’s right. It’s just the act of taking that first step, as though my legs are stuck in soul-sucking quicksand and I’ll never break free from the terror.
Little saint. I hold onto that nickname, keeping it close to my heart. It’s the first time he’s called me that since our waltz on the night of a thousand betrayals.
I give my head a shake. And then I step into the woods.
