Page 20 of This Midsummer Heart (Seasons of Legend #4)

Chapter nineteen

Farewells

Titaine

M

orning

greets

me

with

a view of the surrounding mountains, the silver-blue blur of lakes winking in the distance as the sun tiptoes into the valley.

It also holds a surprise.

When the curse broke, I expected the briars would die back completely.

At worst, there would be thornless brush for the villagers to hack up and haul away, maybe even to add to their fires.

Instead, tidy rows of countless but modest rose bushes stretch across the valley.

Despite living under the warping power of a curse, the original plants survived.

Like the lakes, they disappear into a mist-wreathed, blurry distance.

I rub at my eyes, dropping my hands when pleased locals practically skip into the taverna beside the inn, offering cheerful good mornings to my host, the town’s mayor, and exclaiming about the changed landscape.

Though half of the town is still asleep—as I expected to be after my midnight workings—there is a surprising life to Adellor at this hour.

Mortals they may be, but they must have sensed the breaking of the curse and rose early. Their very moods are lighter, now that they are no longer surrounded by that dark magic. Every face seemed to shine with a new energy, even in my direction. No one offers me so much as a frown.

The only mood that hasn’t improved is my own. Not only am I exhausted—yet somehow unable to sleep in—but no matter how much I massage my aching eyes, the distant landmarks and rose bushes outside of town will not come into focus.

Uneasy from this change, I startle when a presence appears across from me at the table. Mayor Arquina, who is both the owner of this taverna and the inn where Auberon and I took rooms last night, slides into the seat next to me, still stuffing a towel into her apron pocket.

“I’ll be,” she says with what I’ve come to know as her usual hum; this time it denotes her surprised delight. “They say the fata di Morgana

are true to their word, but I confess, I didn’t think you’d be able to do it.”

“I know.” I offer her a mild smile. “It’s done all the same.”

“We’re true to our word here in Adellor, too. I’ll get your horses and supplies ready after breakfast service. If you don’t wish to tarry, you can be off by midday.”

I nod, my shoulders rising a little as that smudged view of the mountains catches my eye through the window. I used too much magic last night

. Much as I’m loath to admit it, my body is faltering.

If I keep pushing it like this, with no natural magic around me to replenish it, it may outright fail.

“I have only one request,” Arquina says, wariness slipping in between her words.

My attention returns to her, my lips pursing. This is just like a hubristic human, to ask for something on top of a completed deal.

“The horses I’ll arrange for you...don’t cross the Bridge of Miracles with them.

Someone always tries it. They’ve heard old tales of heroes outracing the tides in the Dewspell Era, and they don’t know it was only shadow steeds and water horses that could do it.

I don’t have many tears for fools, but the loss of a good horse, for no reason like that. ..”

Her voice trails off as emotion gets the best of her. There is a story of some kind here—one I will not pry into.

“We’ll leave them with the rangers at the northern outpost,” I agree. “Perhaps your merchants will be able to fetch them back, or some other travelers can use them to head north.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I’m not your lady,” I say gently. “You don’t owe me any deference.”

“Just the same.” Mayor Arquina’s soft smile is followed by a shrug.

The towel comes out of Arquina’s pocket as she rises, wrapping it over her forearm, marking a return to business.

“Have breakfast, my lady. A proper breakfast. My treat.

The traders brought us plenty of goods through the briars—the lack of

briars early this morning.”

“Your merchants have resumed work already?”

“Indeed they have, my lady. They traveled through the night and made camp by the lake, intending to start the painstaking trek through the briars just before dawn. It used to take them all day, making several trips back and forth since they couldn’t drive their carts and caravans through.

This morning, they simply drove in on the old road. ”

“So that’s why so many people are up so early,” I remark, trying not to sound too pleased with my handiwork. “They’ve been reunited with their families.”

“And some just wanted to be first in line for supplies.” Arquina chuckles. “Old habits die hard.”

I resist scoffing. Silly humans

. Always fighting one another over resources.

But dread forms quickly in my stomach. Scarcity makes even the noblest peoples ripe for a conflict. And the scarcest resource of them all will soon be magic.

In the coming years, mortals will be fighting the fetes and other magical creatures to compete for what is left of magic. A peaceful line-up to purchase dry goods is hardly anything to scoff at, is it?

“The roses, though,” I say, frowning at the distant rows. “They’re still here, even though the curse is gone.”

“Our main export used to be the roses,” Arquina replies, pausing to greet new patrons arriving in the taverna. “Rose hips for tea. Rose oils for perfumes and soaps. When I was a girl, half the town used to smell of it when the vats would be going.”

She sounds so nostalgic. For once, I think I can understand the allure of what’s past.

I miss my garden, and the ever-blooming flowers. The hum of the bees and the butterflies that would dance over me as I read my books on magic, and the fireflies that would visit the grounds at night. The garden of the House of Fetes was a place of eternal summer, of solace in the midst of the city.

I miss it terribly in this moment. As the smells of fresh-baked buttery biscuits and honey, of savory sausages and bacon hit me like the towel slapping over Arquina’s shoulder, I try to imagine that I’m tangled in the natural scents of the House of Fetes instead.

For I am certain that, even if I turned around now and made it back to the House and its gardens, it would not be the same.

What is left for me to hold on to? Nothing but memories.

“Ready?” Auberon demands, as impatient as ever.

I scowl at him. Since I’m the only reason we have these horses and supplies, I’d think he could keep his mouth shut for once while I say goodbye to Mayor Arquina.

“Thank you, Mayor,” I tell the taverna’s owner, surprising myself as I realize I mean it. Stopping in Adellor was a sound decision; finding someone who could furnish us with so many supplies was an astonishing bit of good luck.

But it’s not only that, is it? She could have turned me away for being a fete, just like the others. Perhaps there are a few good humans out there, and I can be a touch less embarrassed about Auberon and Robin’s little trick with the mortal Bottom.

Arquina brushes off my gratitude. “We had an agreement. I’m just glad you could fulfill your end of it.”

I lower my voice. “But you gave me a fine breakfast, and a place to stay besides.” Feeling a prickling on the back of my neck, I glance at Auberon.

He looks as though he is straining to hear what’s being said; his elven hearing is failing him, much like my eyesight.

I hop into the saddle of Chiara, a light gray dappled mare with a black mane and tail.

“When your people head south, tell them to come through here,” Arquina says, patting the dapple’s flank. “We’ll treat them right, just as I treated you.”

“Thank you.” I bow my head in a sign of mutual respect.

Arquina returns it.

The moment is much ruined by the grunt that slips out as Auberon mounts his chestnut gelding, Tiro’s flowing, creamy white mane is the perfect counterpoint to Auberon’s jet-black hair.

They make a more striking pair than I’d like to admit.

Auberon has always had a certain posture when riding that reminds me he’s a king.

Right now, he almost looks like a hero from one of the old Dewspell Era stories Arquina mentioned earlier.

“Good growing and good harvest,” I call over my shoulder as I urge Chiara forward, forcing Auberon to scramble to find his seat and get the gelding moving. “And prosperity to Adellor.”

“Clear roads and all alacrity to you,” Arquina replies.

As we head for the widest gap between the rows of cultivated rose bushes, I swear I hear a sob. When I look over my shoulder, a somewhat familiar woman stands at the town’s edge, handkerchief in hand as she furiously waves. The miller’s wife, crying to see Auberon leave.

I eye my travel companion with a touch of disgust. He smiles and brushes back his hair in reply.

With a scoff, I turn my attention back to the path ahead. Yet, for some reason, I find myself matching his smile.

Am I having a change of heart? And why now?

Was it the surprise on Auberon’s face last night, the husky way he’d said aloud what he shouldn’t have?

Because we don’t belong together, no matter how many little moments pass between us during this journey to the southern wolding. It will never work between us.

For I can never let him get close enough to break my heart again.