Page 69

Chapter 66

IRIS

Aurora Gavalon’s headstone was not in a graveyard.

It was nestled in a thicket of trees, aged and weathered by the elements, not far from the hill where Aspen had shown me her namesake. The barrier of the Tundra stretched here as well, just beyond the grey stone bearing her name.

Early rays of sun barely peeked through the branches, casting a halo upon her resting place. I knelt before it and brushed away the snow that had accumulated on top.

“I wish I’d gotten to know you when I had the chance,” I whispered, my breath evaporating in a white cloud in the early morning chill. I hoped my words reached her, wherever her soul lay. “You are so loved, Aurora. And someone whose love prevails in such a way is someone I would have been privileged to know.”

Using my thumbnail, I pruned any wilted flowers from the greenery, preserving as much of the vine as I could. Nature had taken her in its embrace, keeping her safe from everything she had been far too young to face.

“He misses you.”

Emotion welled in my eyes, and my first instinct was to fight it, to push it back deep inside. I had not been a part of her life. I didn’t know if it was even appropriate for me to grieve. But after a moment, I let the tears fall.

I let them fall for the beauty she never got to see.

I let them fall for every person she loved, who never got to watch her journey into who she would become.

I let them fall for the world, which had lost a soul as bright as hers.

Because that loss was never fair. It was the kind of loss you cannot speak aloud, for words would never do it justice. To lose brightness in a world so full of dark was monumental. The absence of someone like Aurora Gavalon shredded a hole in the universe that could not be filled.

But it could be loved.

We could build flowers around it, encase it in song, and remember a life so vivid that the world would always seem a fraction dimmer without it. We could all grieve such devastation.

“He misses you more than he can understand, I think. They don’t talk about it much, but I think they all do.”

I filled the small vase I had brought with the solution I’d been working on for a while, careful not to spill any into the snow.

“I wasn’t sure of your favorite flower,” I admitted, pulling the bouquet from my bag. “For some reason, lilies remind me of you. This solution should keep them from wilting so they can remain with you, if that is all right.”

I adjusted the stems, ensuring they sat neatly, then trimmed back the edges of the overgrowth so her name remained visible.

“I hope it is peaceful where you are,” I continued, “and that there is enough chocolate for your wildest dreams.”

The vines surrounding the stone began to shift and twist, small pink flowers blooming along each one.

“She liked lilies.”

Slate-blue hair flashed in the corner of my vision as Deyanira approached my side.

I nodded, pushing to stand and brushing the wet snow from my skirt.

“I apologize if I overstepped,” I said quietly.

“He told you about the chocolates?” she asked, ignoring my apology.

“Yes,” I swallowed, vividly recalling that day in the Tundra when I’d first learned about Aurora. “When we were in the Tundra.”

Deyanira fell silent for a moment, only the sounds of soft chirping and rustling branches harmonizing in the air. She reached out, brushing her hand over the top of the stone with the gentle caress of a lover. More flowers bloomed as she leaned down and pressed her lips to the memorial.

“Hello, darling.”

A single tear fell as she whispered against the cool stone.

She removed more snow as she straightened while murmuring to herself.

“Damn it, Rory.”

The snow fell quicker, and Deyanira became preoccupied with clearing it away.

I allowed a few of my Threads to escape, wrapping around the vines she had created and curving around the gravestone. Their music was slow and somber—a heart-wrenching eulogy of love and loss. The song of a final resting place, chosen far too early, amongst the trees.

“Thank you,” Deyanira sniffed, stepping back and watching the snow cascade off the sides of the barrier as its golden shimmer faded.

“Blue suits you, Deyanira.”

I reached down to hand her a spare vial of the preservation tonic.

She eyed my outstretched hand for several moments before clasping her gloved fingers over the glass.

“Brunette doesn’t seem fitting for either of us,” she replied, her focus returning to the resting place before us.

“He’ll be here soon,” I said, turning to make my way back to the cabin. After the events of the night before, I knew this would be his first stop upon waking. I wanted to make sure it was ready for him—that he didn’t feel the need to do anything except exist in this space, with his sister.

It broke something in my chest to leave him this morning, but slipping away before he had the chance to rise was the only way to ensure he would have that.

“Threader?” Deyanira’s voice called out after only a few steps.

“I’ve almost finished the mantle for that dress Aspen is so particular about. It will be ready for tonight.”

Her tone was uninterested. Bored, even.

“It would have been done sooner without all his meddling, though it truly ruins the craftsmanship.”

“What?” She rolled her eyes, and the barest spark lit within them.

“Lilac is not what I would have chosen, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I thought he was a nightmare the first time—I had to restitch the vines four times before he was satisfied.”

“Do you mean the dress from our trip to Marikaim?”

It had physically pained me to stuff the flowing amethyst gown to the bottom of my trunk.

“You made that?”

“I make all of your new clothing, Threader,” she said with a wave of her hand. “It’s my job.”

All of my clothing.

Deyanira had made it all. Every gown I’d fallen in love with, each new corset and overdress that had—suspiciously—offered much more coverage over the back since we returned from the Tundra.

Each piece that had made me feel more like myself.

“Although,” she scoffed, “I never thought there was anything the prince could be more particular about than his own wardrobe.” She paused, her lips pursing. “But I was proven wrong. Never happy with it. And now he requires that I make a mantle exactly to his specifications.”

Each piece of the gown had been exactly what I would have chosen for myself if I had a say. Down to the beading.

He had been meticulous about it, all those months ago.

I couldn’t place the feeling in my chest—the ache that clawed up my throat at the thought of him planning each detail. The attention he had to have given it. Given me.

For it to be so spectacularly perfect in every way.

And now, I could wear it.

My brilliant boy from the woods.

Deyanira eyed my shock, one hand resting on Aurora’s headstone.

“It’s formidable—being loved by a Gavalon.”

I knew if I searched back through every interaction we’d had, I would see it now.

See that Deyanira’s love had not faded, even as the years fell away. It could be seen in every facet of her.

What a heart-wrenching thing it was, to carry the love of someone through a life they were supposed to share with you.

Through the stroke of her gloved thumb across the smooth headstone, I began to truly understand her.

Deyanira was a knife. Had armed herself with what she could in an environment that threatened to bleed her dry. That might have succeeded, in some ways. But a blade you kept close, the cool sting of it against your thigh a comforting caress. Ready to defend what she loves at any moment, loyal to the bitter end.

It seemed the way she loved—that ever-steady presence, the unwavering fealty—was formidable too.

“It’s a beautiful gown, Deyanira.”

I dipped my head in her direction, swallowing past the lump in my throat.

“Thank you.”

“My job, Threader,” she replied, lips pursed. “That is all.”