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Okay. Maybe it isn’t the wall. Maybe it’s the golden gate. I kneel before it and inspect every curlicue and carved creature upon it, and then I twist the knob in careful measures, anticipating the click of an ikondial. Nothing happens. The hope in my chest sinks into my gut.
Dalca’s disappearance—and that I’ve seen Casvian leaving the garden—points to this being the secret way to Pa’s prison. It has to be here. Dalca’s got Pa, right under my feet, and I’m not clever enough to figure it out.
I clutch the book to my chest in a white-knuckled grip, hating my inadequacies.
I go over every inch of the clearing, touching each tree trunk, each flower, the roots, the benches, and come up with nothing. Perhaps it’s something before the clearing; I head out the gate and search the intricately wound branches over the opening. What am I missing? The honeyed air grows thick in my lungs, smothering me.Where is it?
I retrace our steps back into the winding path, gritting my teeth in frustration. I turn in a circle.
Leaves crunch behind me.
“Vesper.” Dalca’s eyes glint darkly, and a half smile curls his lips.
I swallow a scream.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He radiates calm, but there’s a watchful gleam in his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I know. I’m sorry, it’s just—” What do I say? “I’ve never known plants like these and I—I’m sorry.”
Dalca closes his eyes and tilts his head back. His chest expands, and I mimic him, inhaling the dizzying scent of honeysuckle and roses, of sweet tree-ripened fruit, the soft dark smell of decay that dances underneath it all. “What do you think?”
I bite my lip. Nothing but the truth comes to mind. “It’s a terrible waste. But I’ve never seen such a beautiful place in my life.”
He laughs, eyes fluttering open. “Can beauty be a waste?”
I smile back, uncertain, a little dizzy. “I don’t know. Does beauty have a point?”
Dalca smiles as if I’ve told a joke, but there’s something dangerous in his eyes. I take a small step back. Heisbeautiful, in his own stark way. And it occurs to me that I was wrong. His beauty has a point sharp as a razor; it’s a weapon, and it’s working on me.
“I’ll go,” I say.
“Not yet.” He steps closer, and I step back.
The silver ring in his eyes stretches wide as his pupils grow, the black devouring the summer-sky blue.
His voice is a caress. “Won’t you scold me? Tell me to send the fruit to the children of the fifth and kill every plant that does not bear fruit, no matter how sweetly their flowers bloom?”
I shake my head.
“No?” Dalca steps forward, and I step back. “Won’t you call me cruel? No, you can’t take it back. You told me what you think of the Trial, and of me as Trialmaker. You know better, don’t you? Won’t you tell me how to punish him, this fearmonger, this traitor, this man who murdered my grandfather?”
I don’t trust myself to speak, not when he simmers in a way I’ve never seen, like an inferno waiting for a spark.
He steps forward. “Don’t move.”
I stand still. The distance between us feels like a living thing.
“Your eyes,” Dalca whispers to the gap between us. “How they watch me, how they judge me. I can’t escape them.”
His hand comes up, and my breath catches. His fingers land on my cheekbone, featherlight.
I grab his wrist and the book falls from my hands, landing with a soft thump to which neither of us pay notice.
“There’s something about you, Vesper.” His gaze never wavers from mine, so much so that I start to fear that Carver’s ikonwork has failed, that he recognizes me from Amma’s, that he knows exactly who I am.
“Won’t you tell me not to kiss you?” he breathes against my lips.
I don’t say a word.
