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CHAPTER FIVENow

On equinox night, the night of my betrothal, we host a bonfire.

I choose a gown from my old dresses, the plainest and most shapeless one. It trails to the floor, gauzy cotton the color of swan feathers. Long sleeves hide my bandaged arm.

The front room of our house has been prepared as if for a dance, with the remaining furniture pushed back against the walls. A fire blazes in the hearth, despite the warm night, and a console table houses a carafe of bloodred wine. I pause to fill one of the waiting glasses as I pass by. A centerpiece of oxeye daisies spills petals onto the floor.

The cottage is overflowing with flowers and with people. The whole village is here, or close to. When my brothers made the invitations, they told everyone my betrothed was a boy I met in Astera, who is waiting for me back in Gardemuir. Now the lie seems to thicken the air, and inside the house is sweltering from the flames in the fireplace and the press of too many bodies. With my cup in one hand and the train of my skirts in the other, I slip past the crowd. Clinging to the shadowed corners of the room, I go through the open side door and out into the garden.

The sun is close to the horizon, painting the cliffside in watercolorhues. In the field beyond our house, the unlit bonfire looks like the twisted skeleton of some washed-ashore sea creature, with vines grown through its bones. Beneath it all, I can hear the hush and sigh of the waves.

Looking through the crowd, I recognize a classmate from nursery school, now grown into an adult in a way that feels incongruous with my memory. The staid librarian who would set aside art magazines for me to buy when they came out of circulation. One of the miners who worked on a crew the last harvest I was here.

It’s tradition in Verse to mark your last unmarried day like this, to gather in celebration before leaving to meet your spouse. The wedding ceremony is always done in private, at an altar in sight of the gods. No one here will ever know what tonight truly means: how my bridegroom and witness will be one and the same when I go to the altar.

I hide from the crowd in the wisteria arbor. Here, beneath the trellis, the heat-and-pollen press of the house eases its hold. I drink my wine in a single gulp, then slump against the overgrown bank of vines. Tilting back my head, I loose a heavy sigh.

A rustle of leaves startles me. I look over to see Oberon slipping into the arbor. He’s wearing a crisply ironed linen shirt tucked into his wool trousers, but his sleeves are rolled to his elbows and he has an unlit cigarette in one hand.

He smiles at me, but his eyes are troubled, uncertain. “Is this hiding place taken?”

I shake my head. Oberon comes into the arbor and leans against the trellis. My brothers were furious when I announced my promise to Therion. I’ve so rarely disobeyed them. It was difficult to stand my ground. But I refused to change my mind: I’d made my choice and I was going to see it through.

In the end, we lapsed into a tense stalemate, and have barely spoken in the past few days. Now, in the orange light of sunset, I feel dizzy anduncertain with Oberon beside me. The wine has made my head light and my limbs heavy. I don’t know if I want him to demand I change my mind, or to tell me I have his blessing.

He takes out a box of matches and inexpertly lights his cigarette. My mouth quirks into a puzzled smile as I watch him. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t. I stole it from Henry.” He takes a slow drag, coughs, and exhales. Scowling at the garden, where people have begun to mill around the path to the bonfire, he says, “There’s too many damn people.”

“I wish they were all gone.”

He arches a brow, the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. “You were the one who wanted them here.”

He’s right. I had insisted that we host the bonfire and invite most of the village, that it could serve as a belated birthday party and betrothal celebration all at once. And at the end of the night, they’ll see me off as I go to the grotto and attend our family’s altar. The same as any other bride on the night before her marriage.

I thought it would be easier this way. I didn’t realize how badly I would crave silence, that I’d long for the house to be empty of everyone except myself and my brothers. But now, as Oberon stubs out his cigarette and reaches for my hand, I remember why I wanted to surround myself with a crowd of people.

“Lark,” he begins, voice low. In the shadows of the arbor, his expression is all despair. “You don’t have to do this. We can find another way.”

“What other way? You and Henry leave everything behind, give up our home and our lands and all we’ve ever known?”

“If that’s what it takes, then yes.”

“No.” I set my teeth against the word. “I can’t go back to school, or graduate, or go to college. I don’twantthat. I’m going to marry Therion. I’m an adult now, and this is my choice.”

His fingers tremble; he holds my hand like I am made of glass andhe’s afraid I’ll shatter. “And you’re choosing to spend each salt season, for the rest of your life, in the chthonic world?”

“I am. And at the end of each season, I will come back to you and Henry. Back here, to our home, where we all belong.” I pull away from him, scrunching my hand against my skirts. I don’t want to be something fragile, too delicate to touch. If I must be glass, then I want to be the razored edge of a broken pane—sharp and dangerous. “We should find Henry. It’s almost time.”

Oberon is solemn and silent as he follows me out from the arbor and into the house.

The front room is even more crowded now. Stiflingly warm, and filled with the distracting hum of voices. Beside the fire, Henry is deep in conversation with someone. The light shifts, the figure turns, and it’s Alastair: dressed in a dark suit as though he’s on the way to a burial, his coat slung carelessly over his arm and silver cuff links glinting at his wrists.

I’m moving before I can think, my face flushed as I shove my way through the crowd toward him “What do you think you’re doing here?”

He regards me with bored indifference. “I was invited.”

“Youweren’t.” Around us the conversation falls to a pin-drop silence as my voice grows louder.