Page 10

My dreams were fitful and fleeting, until I found myself once again in the cemetery outside Willowfell. Dappled midday sun

filtered through the trees overhead, and I was lying on the ground between my parents’ graves. The grass was soft, the breeze

peaceful and full of the scent of wildflowers. I had one hand over my mother and the other over my father, and everything

was just so calm . I was among the dead, and they didn’t judge or demand or manipulate me to get what they wanted. I was simply existing.

But as I rolled grass between my fingers, the blades turned to mush and the ground trembled. The lush scenery decayed rapidly to gray as the earth came alive, shifting and squirming with golden beetles and soft yellow loam. A tomb opened up beneath me, and I fell into blight. Into decaying limbs and hollow eyes. Into a vat of disease that ate away at my skin. Into a stench-ridden catacomb with shredded Ever life threads wildly lashing about like withering vines. They snared my wrists and legs, dragging me under. Rotting soil filled my mouth as I screamed and succumbed to the certainty of death.

My eyes flew open with a sharp intake of breath, and my body went rigid. Fernglove. I was in Fernglove. My pulse hammered

against my throat, and I was thankful, at least, that Ywena was not nearby to shock me. I’d dealt with enough Ever antics

for a lifetime. My body was ready for a break.

A thin slice of sunlight cut through the curtains, and I peeled off the sheets and clambered out of bed. I made my way to

the bathroom, grabbing my apothecary cases as I went. Technically, I didn’t need my tinctures. Vora’s concoction had worked

wonders to alleviate my pains, but my remedies gave me comfort. Some semblance of control. So I drew a bath and added my favorite

salts for relaxation.

After, I toweled off and dressed quickly, not bothering with a gown. Instead, I opted for pants and a loose blouse before

immediately visiting my brothers. Relief sang through me at their unchanged state. I still had time. Not much, but enough

to stir hope.

A soft knock preceded the quiet groan of hinges from the door. “Edira?”

I turned to find Vora standing in the open frame, her brows scrunched together in worry. I let my hands fall away from Noam

and Nohr.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, voice low.

“Good. What was in that drink? I might need to steal that recipe from you,” I said with a smile.

“Maybe I’ll teach you,” she said. “But for now, you should eat. I’ve set up breakfast in your room.”

I followed her into my quarters without complaint. She tugged my hair into a braid while I devoured eggs and fruit, pausing only to sip coffee between bites. The window above my vanity was open, and I studied the sleepy lawns. Early-morning light bathed the lush fields in a soft glow, and the vibrant gardens were empty, save for the marble statues manning the coiling pathways. The fountain centered in the middle of the pond was showering the water in a fine spray, and the countless droplets shimmered like falling diamonds in the sun’s rays. Yet, the stunning scenery wasn’t enough to hold my focus. My gaze traveled right back to that damn tree.

A chill crept down my spine as I cleared my throat. “What happened to Amalyss and Tasia?”

Vora’s hands stilled against my scalp. “They’re being adequately punished for their actions. They won’t try that again.”

“What kind of punishment?” I asked.

“It doesn’t concern you.” She let her hands fall away and then reached around me to secure my empty plate. “That said, I strongly

recommend you avoid the family until things have settled.”

My brows drew together. “Why?”

Vora sighed. “Lydia and Clesian are not pleased with Orin’s decision to admonish the girls...” Her words trailed off, leaving

plenty of space for me to interpret the danger lying in wait somewhere in this gods-forsaken estate. No doubt they blamed

me for whatever Amalyss and Tasia were now enduring at Orin’s hand. “He’s ordered everyone to give you space, but most of

the family is quite good at skirting his word.”

“As evidenced by last night,” I said with an eye roll. “Speaking of Orin, do you know where he is?”

“He told me to bring you to the library,” she said as she made her way to the door. “Shall we?”

“Unless you know of another way to earn my keep outside of threadmending.”

Vora snorted. “Follow me.”

We moved through the quiet manor until we reached a cavernous room packed with weathered tomes. The sheer curtains framing the countless windows were drawn open, allowing light to fill the rafters and catch on the crystal chandelier draped from the ceiling. A tufted sofa was positioned before a polished coffee table and two armchairs with matching cream-colored fabric. A stack of slim books was arranged on the table, along with a pile of blank papers and ink pens.

“He’s just finishing an appointment. I’ll let him know you’re ready after I drop this off,” she said as she balanced my empty

breakfast plate in her hand. She exited quickly, hooking a left once she crossed into the hall. As she disappeared, I breathed

in deep, savoring the faint scent of worn leather.

Dust motes floated in the beams of sunlight, and I waved my hand through the air as I eyed the space. We didn’t have many

books at home, but the few novels we did own I’d read more times than I could count. I moved to the stack of books on the

table and dragged my fingertips along the thin spines. They were more like journals than novels, but beautifully crafted nonetheless.

I lifted the first one off the pile, marveling at the ivy-green cover and gilded pages. There were no markings to be seen,

but when I flipped open the weathered journal, I spied a single name in neat handwriting along the top of the page.

Rowena.

My fingers hovered over her familiar scrawl as a weight dredged through my gut. This was likely the last piece of my aunt

left in this world. And while I knew I’d eventually have to turn the page and learn about her time here at Fernglove, for

a moment, I could simply stare at her name and pretend that she still existed—that the life we once shared in Willowfell still

existed.

My heart hammered in my throat for what felt like hours, until a quiet yet insistent cough forced me to look up. Orin stood

a few inches away with a drink tray in hand. Twin mugs with faded blue flowers painted onto the ceramic were filled with tea,

and a small dish of sugar cubes sat beside them. With a smile stretching from ear to ear, he placed the tray on the table

and sidled up beside me.

“I see you found what I wanted to review with you.” Then his gaze drifted to Rowena’s name, and his expression sobered. “She was an impressive threadmender.”

“I know.” I swallowed thickly before sinking to the sofa. “I miss her.”

Orin sat beside me and offered me a mug of tea. “I hope her journal, along with all our previous threadmenders’ journals,

will help you refine your talents. They’ve learned many things about the scope of their magic over the years.”

I accepted the drink and took a slow sip, surprised by the delightful blend of jasmine and orange blossoms. The warmth of

the tea settled me, and I trailed a finger along Rowena’s journal. “Thank you. These are... invaluable.”

“I imagine so.” Orin pressed his mug to his lips. “I can’t fathom having a magic that is a detriment to practice.”

Cure no one. My aunt’s own words. I wondered if I’d find that warning again outlined in her entries, but Orin was right. Part of the reason

threadmenders knew so little about developing their talents was because the risk was often not worth the reward. We shared

small learnings with each other, passed down from one generation to the next. But nothing would compare to this . I eyed the stack before me again as a seed of hope bloomed in my chest. I could do this. I could study the methods they’d

developed and learn from their failures. Here, their whole job had been dedicated to perfecting their magic. It may have cost

them their lives, but maybe I didn’t have to lose mine.

Orin watched me closely, his tea forgotten in his hands. After a beat, he set it on the tray and shifted so his leg just barely

grazed mine. “I’ve read all of these myself, but I do think they’ll mean something different to you. I can only imagine the

power they describe.” He looked at my hands then, a kind of rapt curiosity filling his expression.

I gripped the mug tighter as I tried in vain to ignore the wild desire to ignite my power, just to see if he’d marvel at my glow the same way he did that day in my house. “It’s probably best if I read them myself first.”

“Of course. I’m here to support you however you need.” He leaned closer, and I tilted my head toward him. He was no more than

a breath away. I inhaled deeply, hoping to catch a sliver of his scent, but came up empty. There was nothing but clean air

and the faint aroma of the library.

“I’m sure I’ll need your help after I get through these.” I thumbed the binding of Rowena’s journal before nodding to the

others. “You know the magic of your kind better than any threadmender.”

His hand absently skimmed the side of my thigh. “Consider me an open book, then.”

My traitorous heart was thundering madly in my chest, and I briefly wondered if he could hear the damn thing cantering about.

I hoped not. I didn’t even fully understand why I was inching toward him, why it felt good to be near his warmth.

“Thank you for this, by the way.” I held Rowena’s journal between us, effectively drawing his focus to the pages. “I’ve thought

about her all these years, and now it’s like I get to see what her days were like. What I missed.”

Orin placed his hand over mine. Pressed it tight against the journal, against a piece of my family. Our fingers nearly threaded.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to say goodbye.”

“Me, too.”

For a while, neither of us spoke. We sat there, fingers becoming more intertwined with each passing breath, and simply basked

in the comfort of shared silence. I didn’t understand why he was looking at me with such care. Why my own pulse kept ratcheting

with each minute that scraped by. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat that I realized I’d leaned in far too close, and I

straightened as a heat overcame my cheeks.

Orin tracked the crawling blush across my skin, and want flickered to life in his gaze. Still, his smile was gentle. “Take your time. For now, I’ll give you a few days to read these without interruption. You can resume physical training with Rorik later, and I won’t distract you any further.”

I removed my hand from his and busied my fingers by flipping aimlessly through the journal’s pages. “I’ll let you know if

I need anything.”

“Please do.” Orin stared at me for a moment longer, letting his smile wash over me fully, before standing and straightening

his shirt. He left without another word, and it was all I could do not to collapse on the cushions.

What in the Ever-loving hell was that? A groan simmered from my chest, and I closed my eyes. Orin defied every preconceived notion I had about Evers. Every. Last.

Thing. I hated him for it, and yet, at the same time, I didn’t. Because here I was, holding a piece of my family’s history

that I never knew existed.

Opening my eyes, I righted myself on the sofa and flipped Rowena’s diary open to the first page.

Before her days as a threadmender, she’d been the town’s poet laureate. She had been prolific and eloquent, and her cozy home—now

property of the town elders—was packed with books and journals full of her neat handwriting. When she’d left us, I kept a

few of her smaller memoirs for myself. But this journal was the last thing she’d penned.

I forced myself to swallow my grief and slowly began to move through her dated entries. Her work was formal, her prose stiff.

It was so different from what I was used to seeing from her, and I realized that while she may have agreed to help find a

cure for blight, she took no joy in it. Still, I read every word. Every detailed explanation of Evers’ threads, their movements,

their strength and resilience. She’d also built on methods for mending based off the earlier threadmenders’ journals, and

while I planned to read those as well, I couldn’t help but appreciate her meticulous instructions.

The only page that lacked any detail was the final entry. It contained only one word.

Mavis.

A dull ringing settled low in my ears.

“Aunt Rowena,” I murmured to myself as I traced her handwriting. The page was dated fifteen years back. Orin had said she’d

died several years ago, but fifteen ? My heart twisted. Her life had been cut drastically short. Had she known that attempting to cure Mavis would result in her

death? Tears welled in my eyes as I stared at the name. She hadn’t managed it. I’d known as much, given the situation I was

in, but seeing that entry... that solitary word...

A fist clenched my heart tight as I gently stroked the page. A sudden, sharp pain sliced through my forefinger, and I winced

as I dropped the book in my lap. A bead of blood welled to the surface of my skin along the neat slit. Glancing down at the

open journal, I spotted a small, jagged fragment of paper jutting from the center binding.

A missing page? The evidence of the rip was almost imperceptible, just the barest scrap to indicate a page had been there at all. There were

no ink splatters or notes of any kind that had bled across its surface, and since it was sandwiched between Rowena’s last

entry about threadmending techniques and the final page with Mavis’s name, there was no interruption in her train of thought.

If not for the cut now dulling on my finger, I never would have known it was missing.

I flipped through her journal to see if anything else had been removed, but the remainder of the binding was intact. Had she

torn it out? Or someone else? A ghostly chill crept down the length of my spine. I could ask, but what good would it do? Would

they even tell me the truth? Did they even notice?

“Strange,” I muttered. Wiping away the droplet of blood on my pants, I set her book beside me and reached for the next jour nal. I had four more to browse, four more chances to glean any additional information about blight or the Evers’ threads. But as I spent the next few hours sifting through the threadmenders’ memories, I couldn’t help but think of the missing page from Rowena’s diary and that single, damning word.

Mavis.