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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Now

Daybreak casts the woods in violet and umber, colors as darkly layered as the brushstrokes of a mural. And as we make our way back through the trees, it’s as though we’ve stepped inside The Dusk of the Gods . As though we are vanishing into the shadows.

On the border of the woods, Hugo pauses, looking hesitantly from me and Camille to the trail that leads in the other direction, back toward the village. I take hold of his arm. “Stay with us. I don’t want you running back to the Salt Priests.”

“I wouldn’t,” he says, pulling away from my grasp. Camille makes a disbelieving sound, and he flinches. The three of us continue onward, Hugo a few paces behind us, his arms folded around his chest, his head bowed.

It takes longer to go this way, following the path as it weaves through the Arriscane woods.

If we had walked along the clifftop, we would be home by now.

But I don’t want to be near the ocean, to see the place where the swan boat blazed, the remaining charred scraps of sail and wood that now float solemnly on the surface of the sea.

My cottage comes into sight, wreathed with ivy, pastel-lit in the dawn. Hugo is quiet and withdrawn as we emerge from the woods and cross over the fields. I take his hand and pull him after me as we approach the house. He follows meekly, his fingers trembling against mine, as I lead him inside.

Camille watches from the corner as I tuck Hugo into a makeshift bed on the chaise. I look down at his tear-streaked face. He’s bereft, hollowed out by fierce, new grief. “I meant what I said,” he tells me. “I won’t go back.”

“Where will you go, then?” Camille asks tautly.

Hugo tugs at the edge of his shirtsleeve with blue-stained fingers. “I have distant family in Driftsea. I hope, if I tell them I’ve left the Salt Priests, they’ll take me in. After that… I don’t know. I just want to be as far away from Verse as possible.”

He starts to cry again, large silent tears that drip down over his cheeks. The same flicker of sympathy I felt for him earlier rises, soap-bubble fragile. I am furious for what he’s done, but at the same time that I see an enemy, I see a broken boy.

I put my hand on his shoulder. He folds himself up in the quilt so tightly, all that shows is one flushed cheek and the mess of his hair. He closes his eyes and turns on his side, his golden curls spilling over the pillow.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

I pat his shoulder, tuck a wayward strand of hair behind his ear. “I know.”

I sit beside him until he falls asleep. Then, with a sigh, I make my way upstairs. Camille follows, looking back at Hugo one last time before we reach the landing. “I suppose it’s better to keep him close for tonight,” she says reluctantly.

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure what else to do. If you want me to send him away, though, I will.”

She shakes her head. “No, let him stay.”

I lead her into the bathroom. It’s quiet and dim, the frosted window still untouched by early sun.

I turn on both the faucets as far as they will go, and water pours down in a torrent as it fills the tub.

The sound of it is a welcome layer above the quiet; I’m so hollowed out that I don’t have the strength for words.

Only the ache of emptiness that lies between us, rippling through the air like a ghost.

In the cool, tiled shadows, we shed our ruined gowns, helping each other strip down to our underthings.

A silk camisole, my brassiere, my ribboned underwear.

Camille tugs the ribbon from my hair. She’s all in lace beneath a pearl-colored slip.

Slowly she reaches to the strap of my camisole and slides it down my shoulder.

Eyes downcast, she asks, “Is this all right?”

I nod, my lips pressed together. I’m shivering, nervous, but I want to bare myself to her, slide the lace from her skin, touch her with nothing between us but our desire and our sadness.

I feel as though I have a fever when she lifts the camisole over my head, unclasps my brassiere, slides down my underwear.

My hands are shaking as I reach toward her.

She closes her eyes, uncharacteristically shy.

When she turns her back to me so I can unfasten her brassiere, I run my fingers down the bared expanse of her spine.

The untouched skin between her shoulder blades is like a secret I’ve unveiled.

I gather up the heavy, silken weight of her hair and kiss the nape of her neck. She makes a quiet, yielding sound.

We stand amid the drifts of lace and silk, of our discarded gowns.

Fabric whispers at our ankles and pools over our feet.

I’ve never been unclothed with anyone like this before.

I thought I would be shy, but instead… I’m strangely free.

There’s something celestial about this moment: the softness of our bodies, the curve of Camille’s belly, her rounded hips and her long legs.

Together, we step into the bathtub, and I turn off the faucets.

We drift together, drawn as though by an invisible thread.

Camille starts to kiss me, slowly, uncertain.

And even though I’ve been close to her so many times, and I would know the shape of her with my eyes closed, know her even in the sightless dark, this all feels so tentative and new.

I’m restless, helpless, overcome with sorrow and wanting.

My heart is beating so quick and loud, the noise of it fills my ears.

“Is this all right?” Camille says again, her hand on my knee, sliding higher. I nod, let my face drop against her shoulder. When her hand slips between my thighs, it feels like an invocation.

I reach for her, my fingers tracing a slow line over her waist, her hip, then lower. My touch is a question, easier to voice than my shy, faltering request. “Can I—?”

“Lark,” she whispers. “Yes—please—”

We’re curled together, all open mouths and unbidden gasps and inquisitive touches that grow bolder, more certain, as we learn the rhythm of each other.

It feels like mourning, like we have hidden away to lick our wounds.

Water sloshes at the edges of the bath. Camille’s dark hair floats around us like tendrils of kelp.

I wind a strand around my fingers, tug her closer, and set my teeth against her bare shoulder, licking at the taste of her skin.

She begins to fall apart with sweet, unguarded sounds.

The feel of her shivering against me drags me into helplessness, too.

Afterward, we sit together in the cooling water as our breath settles, our heartbeats slow. Camille leans against me, framed by my bent knees with her back to my chest. We’re slotted together like two spoons.

I wrap my arms around her, layering kisses against her neck. “I love you, Camille.”

She presses her mouth against my knee, nuzzling softly. “And I love you.”

Steam plumes through the air as we let the water soak us clean.

Sloughing away the sand and ash and dirt, until the bottom of the tub is gritted by a layer of silt.

And even though we’re pressed so tightly together that our breath is synced, that our chests rise and fall as one, the place where Alastair is not feels wide as a chasm, an open wound.

One by one, the feathers at my wrists come free from my skin.

They float on the water like fallen petals.

The changes left on me by Therion, by the unstable pull between me and the chthonic world, begin to fade.

There’s a soft, fleeting ache in my chest as I look down at my arm.

Only a faint, pinkish scar is left behind.

I will always be his, no matter what. I am bound to him by the circumstances of my creation, and by the vows we swore.

But it is an equal weight, our connection.

I am his bride, I was born to be his, but I am also simply…

Lark. My own self, an imperfect girl with an entire life, an entire world, lying ahead. Waiting for me to discover it.

I scoop the feathers from the water and lay them out on the edge of the bath to dry. Camille touches the newly bared skin. Her fingers circle my wrist; she raises it to her mouth and kisses the scar. Then, lowering my hand back to the water, she takes my other wrist and does the same.

When the water has turned completely cold, we climb from the bath and wrap ourselves in cotton towels. In my room, I sit at the end of my bed, my hair dripping. Camille peruses the contents of my dresser and picks out some clothes to borrow.

She chooses a pair of wool trousers and a plain, cream-colored shirt.

Standing beside the window, she buttons the sleeves as she stares pensively outside.

“You can see Saltswan from here. I never noticed before.” With a sigh, she looks out toward the clifftop path.

“I have to go back. The sooner I break the news to Father, the better.”

“I’ll come with you,” I say, starting to get up. But Camille shakes her head.

“No. I—I need to do this on my own. Alastair bore so much from him, it’s my turn to face him now.”

I watch as she braids her damp hair and ties the end with one of my ribbons. She’s wan and drawn, her eyes dark with sorrow and fatigue. I don’t want to let her go; the temptation to cling to her, to guard her closely, is overwhelming. She’s all I have left.

But I remember Alastair, how he offered himself to Therion in my place, desperate for a chance to be brave. This is Camille’s version of that same moment. Her chance to claim redemption against the overbearing presence of Marcus Felimath.

“I understand,” I tell her.

“I’ll try to encourage him to have a quiet burial. Our family has a sea crypt below the house, so it will be private at least.”

I think of the sea crypts near the village, where most people who live in Verse go to memorialize their dead. Henry and Oberon had taken me there a handful of times when I was younger, shown me the markers that belonged to the people who I’d thought were my parents.