Page 26 of Antiletum (The Nocturne #1)

Nothing but an echo

Delaney

I ’m bored.

And anxious for Val to return. This longing—this pure physical draw to him has become impossible to ignore. Not since he’s dedicated himself to forcing his way in. I almost wish he had started sooner.

A lot of time is spent in the spirlinary after Selise was called away to assist Nelda in making some complicated tonics that take days to brew correctly.

But it’s stiflingly hot with none of the windows within the sanctuary able to be opened.

Curiosity held me too thoroughly to not inquire to someone about the reason for the openings being sealed.

Wondering how differing the story would be to what Val told me.

“It’s been said that many years ago,” a young servant tells me conspiratorially after I leave in search of refreshments, “a Lord’s son opened a window and simply stepped outside—to the nothing beyond and sunk like a stone in water, splatting grotesquely on top of a carriage in the drive.”

“That’s terrible,” I respond with equal dramatics, accepting the iced cucumber water she offers .

She nods seriously and slides onto the ornate couch next to me, obviously finding great enjoyment in her telling.

“The young man was in love. He went to Parliament, requested a marriage, and they declined. Saying it was an unsuitable match. He opted for death over being unpaired with his chosen love.”

The tale is surprising given that it doesn’t exactly paint Parliament in any more positive of a light than what Val shared.

The same servant told me that his spirit, dark and flitting, now haunts spirlinaries throughout the city. That he tucks away on the arched stone rafters, letting his heartache echo through the walls, waiting for his true love to find him beyond life.

Greenhouse-like atmosphere aside, being in the spirlinary is making me positively itch to necromance. A jittery sensation scratches through my chest, a far too familiar feeling in recent months.

I have in mind to retire to my room that graciously boasts an operable window after my conversation with the servant.

Really—I have every single intention of going to my own chambers. But walking through our apartments, cavernous ceilings echoing my steps back to me, the door of Valledyn’s room across the hall from mine has me halting abruptly.

What is Val’s living space like, when not dominated with his presence? Is his energy permeating the walls? Has he left space for me?

Such an intrusive thought! I scold myself.

I don’t miss him. I don’t even know him enough to miss him. I haven’t been obsessively counting down the seconds, waiting for his return, as if I know when that might be.

Willful little feet—mind of their own, I swear it—turn to the ajar door.

I push it wide and walk right through the pointed arch opening.

It’s like Val left it unlocked on purpose.

Inviting me to come in. Technically, it is our space.

I’m doing nothing wrong. If Val came home to find me and all of my belongings set up in the marriage room, he would be utterly delighted.

A charmed smile overtakes my mouth. A quick scan of the place has me already planning out where my items will go.

It truly is lovely inside. Beyond the breakfast table and small living area with a large settee is a sunken floor where a massive cathedral canopy bed sits, draped in black curtains trimmed with silver.

Some might liken it to being in a fishbowl, settled in a crevice with those crystal windows towering high above.

The domed glass ceiling. But it’s surprisingly open.

Airy. Large exterior transom windows allow in a welcome breeze.

Colorful flowers and living plants scattered throughout the room break up the dark hues of black, gray, and silver decorating the space in different textures of silk and velvet.

The whole room screams of luxury. Only the best for the Lord and Lady of Noctua.

A spiral metal staircase winds up to a patio. The teasing image of a terrace garden with magenta-red blooms stains the edges of the open door. Smiling, I go to inspect, fiercely missing gardening myself.

Greenery in hanging planters on long chains decorate the ceiling. I’m able to trail my hand against the leaves leisurely on my way up the stairs.

Orange light washes across my face when I reach the terrace, the sun dropping below the horizon as it sinks off to sleep, washing the city in slanting shadows and lengthening the spires piercing towards the sky.

Despite the golden glow, a crackle of static clings in the back of my throat.

Earthy freshness of rain accompanies it like a jealous lover, entwined in its essence.

Before long, a wall of clouds blot out those final rays .

A storm-promised breeze sends a trace of floral notes to me. Beneath it is something richer, something musky and mouth watering. Tantalizing. Lassoing me like livestock.

Knees hit the ground at the edge of the raised bed. Just at face level, red and purple dahlias greet me, their blossoms heavy and fat. A deep inhale sucks through my nose, pulling those notes within myself, as well as the tones buried beneath the dirt.

Val’s blood.

A shamefully sensual moan leaves me. Deos . That’s positively spellbinding. It’s subtle—almost faded away. But just enough lingers that I can still grasp it, hold it on the back of my tongue. Taste it like a treat meant only for me. A hint of what he fed me with his own mouth at our wedding.

It solidifies my decision to embrace my husband fully, this aching want that I can no longer ignore. Reservations be damned. Even if, on some level, it’s a fantasy. A fantasy can be a foundation to build from.

Clearly Val used his own blood to nurture the garden at one point.

But now, the flowers droop, ever so slightly.

The edges of their petals have brittle brown spots.

Still beautiful and well maintained, but not the perfect blossoms that would thrive if Val was still using his necromancy to cultivate the flowers.

Feeding it his blood to keep at bay any signs of decay, even when his touch disappears.

A way of gardening that I am intimately familiar with.

So much for quelling my want to necromance . No bother. Urges can be rectified as soon as my husband returns home. A notion that makes my lips curve with a smile. Both my husband and home . Allowing myself the possibility for happiness for the first time in a decade.

Giddiness races up my spine, imagining Val’s reaction when I surprise him by having taken up residence in our room. Finally ready to let him in .

Unable to help myself, I dig beneath satiny petals, past thin stems, and sink into the dirt. I can see it in my mind: Val tending to the garden. Focused, careful, and caring. Those long fingers and large hands working diligently. I wonder what other ways he’s built those calluses across his palms?

Legs growing numb, I push myself to stand, to retreat back and explore my soon-to-be bedroom a little closer.

One last glance is given to the flowers, thinking that maybe the garden will be mine and Val’s first place to use our magic together.

Suddenly, it occurs to me: These are the exact same flowers used on my headdress—on Val’s wreath—for our wedding.

The same shade and size. Almost as if they were plucked from this particular garden.

How odd.

My face falls from a serene smile, morphing into a furrowed brow.

Swallowing is difficult, a strange tingling sensation blurring through my gut and erasing my previous excitement. My neck is cold. Uncomfortable. Before I know it, I’ve found myself back inside, thundering down the metal staircase, turning a slow circle in the sunken room. Looking for… What?

Anything to explain away this trepidation brought about by the dahlias.

A low grumble of thunder shakes the ceiling. An omen.

For the first time since our breakfast in this room, I let the implications of Rainah’s warning wash over me again. Something about the garden is rearing an uglier, stronger version of the wariness I took to heart. The one I was finally letting go.

Maybe Rainah wanted to inform me of something beyond Val’s obvious double agency when it comes to his position in the faction .

I’m mindless, opening drawers and cabinets. Looking behind books on the shelf. Not bothering to put things back how I found them.

Rain splats against the ceiling—a low, melancholy melody.

Intentions in coming in here were wholly innocent.

For a brief moment, I was planning out where I would place my belongings, dispersing them seamlessly right along Val’s: my heels tucked into an alcove next to his boots, sitting abandoned like he’s merely in the other room, not miles and miles away.

A stack of my favorite books on the marble topped bedside table, waiting for me, an unused mirror of the one littered with Val’s items. Complete with an empty glass for water, a single dagger, a sketch pad and charcoal carefully laid across it.

I’m mesmerized by the openness of his personal items. Particularly, the notepad.

Terrifying curiosity demands that I look at whatever he’s captured.

Slowly, I stop at the table, veins of black snaked through white stone, my heart pounding in my throat.

Sickeningly. With eyes closed, I pick up the pad.

Let the charcoal roll to the floor with a clatter.

My stomach cinches tighter, lids slide open, and a startled gasp works past my lips.

Drawn on the off-white paper is a perfect rendering of the headdress I wore for my wedding. Flowers and all. Sketched by a loving hand that put hours of thought into the adornment. Little notes decorate the margins in messy, nearly illegible scrawl.

Val drew this.

Not only did he admit to being an artist, but I can smell his dead skin cells still clinging to the paper.