Page 109 of Wild Reverence

LXXXIV

A Thousand Years

MATILDA

I had wondered how long it would take for me to remember my body, to remember what it felt like to draw air. I had gasped upon waking in the sepulcher as if I were taking my first breath again. My lungs had swelled with a pleasant ache, my heart burning in my chest as if I had set it aflame.

I lay on the stone table, my eyes open to the darkness that had kept my flesh company for seven mortal years, and I took another breath, and then another, drawing all the shadows into me until my heart was warm again. It resumed its dance, mending the jagged wound in my chest with each beat.

Blood soon branched through my veins, luminous.

I moved my fingers, flexed my toes. I brought my hand to my face.

Flowers, so dry they had become dust, fell from my fingers, and how I trembled, like newly spun leaves on a branch, tested by a storm.

But I traced my face, my lips, my ears and the moonstones that pierced them.

I was slowly remembering, but I could not deny that I felt like a stranger in my own skin.

A thought cut through my mind like a sunlit blade. When would I feel whole again, or had I been away for too long?

Slowly, I rose. My first steps were shuffles, but I found the entrance to the tomb. It was sealed, but I was the goddess of iron. I laid my palms to the door and I felt the pulse of the lock. It melted beneath my command and I pushed.

The door shuddered and gave way.

I stepped out into a rain-streaked night.

The castle was dark and silent, dreaming. I did not wish to wake it as I walked the empty corridors, my memory guiding me to the tower steps. I ascended them, my heart pounding.

I paused before Vincent’s door. A realization flared through me, and I feared I would find him entwined with another in his bed.

I should not have worried; his chamber was dark, the furniture draped in white sheets, as if he had not been here for a long time.

The ashes had been swept clean from the hearth.

I stood in the center of the chamber, searching for a sign of where he might have gone. If he was not here, then where would he be? A different chamber, perhaps? But no, this had been his sanctuary, and I knew he was not here within these walls. Nor was he on the bridge.

Eventually, I lit a candle and sat at his desk.

There was parchment and a glass inkstand.

A cup of quills and a signet for wax seals.

I retraced our conversations, eventually settling on one that made me pause.

He had once said that he desired to have a small farm somewhere, tucked away from the world. To live in solitude.

I closed my eyes and cast out my magic, as if I had a delivery for him. A letter in my hand with his name scrawled upon it.

My mind raced over the river. Over the moors and their wildflowers, the goldenrod that bloomed in the wayside. The road that led to the northern mountains, a place I had once walked with him and his people. I remembered the meadow where I had lain down beside him, and we had gazed at the stars.

I had felt safe in his arms, feeling him breathe against me.

My eyes opened.

I knew where he was.

I took the road beneath my bare feet. It was dark—the storm clouds were a shield over the moon and the constellations—and the rain continued to fall. But I savored the taste of it, the thrum of it upon my skin. How my dress clung to me like a lover. How my hair was like silk, dripping with water.

I had not run in a very long time. I had almost forgotten how it felt—the thrill of my feet pounding a melody into the earth, my breath sharp in my lungs.

I smiled as my walk quickened.

Soon, I was running over the hills.

Laughter spilled from me. I could not contain this delight; it still brimmed in my blood when I reached a cottage in the woods.

I slowed, approaching the door. He was here; this was the home he had claimed, and I could only wonder what had brought him to such a place.

Had he lost his power as lord, or had he surrendered it gladly?

I lifted my hand to knock upon the wood but paused.

Fear gripped me, and I decided to walk away, threading through the trees.

It was late; he would be sleeping. I did not know if my words had reached him, and if they had not…

I was about to take him by utter surprise.

I thought of the child I had carried back to the mortal realm. The boy who had called his name.

He could have a family. A wife, sleeping within. I did not want to disrupt his new life, and I wondered if I should leave. Melt away into the wind or seek a hidden door and go as far and as deep as the under realm would let me. Return to the wasteland, to dwell beside the Gatekeeper.

It seemed like the safest option. But I could already taste the regret, as if I had cut my lip.

I waged this battle for a while longer, standing between an elm and an oak. Eventually, I decided to approach the door again. I shivered as I raised my hand. A shaky breath unspooled from me as I knocked, three times fast.

I waited.

There was no sound, no light.

I decided to leave and spun on my heel. I was two steps away when I heard the locks slide. The door swung open with a creak. I felt firelight wash over my back, my shoulders, and I paused, afraid to look at him. But I could feel his gaze.

“ Red, ” he breathed.

My heart tugged. Slowly, I turned to face him.

Vincent stood beneath the lintel, holding a candle.

His hair was longer. There was more silver at his temples, and he had let his beard grow.

Wrinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes, and his tunic was homespun, brushing the tops of his knees.

He wore no trousers, and his feet were bare, like mine.

He smelled like garden soil and bread and green vines, like woodsmoke and pine and wool.

I stared at him, taking in these slight changes, and yet he was familiar to me. I could see the mark of seven years upon him; they had been long years, laced with worry and fear as well as laughter and joy. Sun and cold winters, tempests and firelit stories.

I realized I had not responded. I had not even dared to breathe as I held his gaze.

But then he smiled, and the tension vanished from my bones.

“Come inside,” he said. “I have been waiting for you.”

I stood by the hearth, watching him light the fire.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Thirsty?”

I nodded, afraid my voice would break if I dared to speak.

Vincent wiped his hands on his tunic and rose.

There was a black-and-white dog, curled up near the hearth, watching me with beady eyes as if I were a threat.

I swallowed and glanced away, taking in the cottage.

It was a welcoming place, its rafters adorned with hanging herbs, its space claimed by mismatched furniture.

Sheepskin rugs were spread over the stone floor, and a few small tapestries graced the walls.

Vincent had disappeared into the adjoining chamber. I did not know what he was doing until he returned to me, a clean tunic draped over his arm.

“Do you want to change?” he asked.

I glanced down. My dress was translucent from the rain, its hem mud splattered. I had dripped puddles onto his floor.

“Yes,” I said, reaching for the garment. “Thank you.”

He smiled at me again, and I felt warm as if I had swallowed a handful of embers.

He turned away, his focus entirely on the fire and the soup he was heating in the cauldron.

I realized he was granting me privacy, and I removed my belt, letting it clink on the floor.

I stripped away my gown, my skin pebbled from the cold air.

He kept his eyes averted, and it reminded me of our wedding night. The night we had pretended to be wed.

I drew the tunic over my head and sighed. It was warm and soft, and it smelled like his skin.

When he invited me to sit in one of the chairs, I did. When he set a bowl of soup into my hands, I accepted, grateful. I lifted it to my lips and I sipped the bone broth, tasting all the wild flavors of his garden.

“Did you make this?” I asked, my voice husky.

He draped my drenched gown close to the fire to dry. Then he sat in the chair across from mine, handing me a slice of brown bread. “Yes. Do you like it?”

“It is very good,” I confessed. I could feel each swallow trickle through me, as if awakening my blood again. I devoured the rest, and then scraped the bowl dry with the crust. When he poured me a cup of ale, I drank, relishing its golden bite.

Vincent was quiet, watching me. Then he asked, “May I ask where you came from, Matilda?”

Now that I was warm and dry and my stomach had been filled, I realized it was time for the two of us to talk. I crossed my legs; his eyes flickered down to the movement before meeting my gaze once more, and there they remained, fixed upon me.

“I came from the wasteland,” I said. “I have been there the past seven years, fulfilling a service to the Gatekeeper.”

“You woke in the sepulcher tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone see you rise?”

“No. The castle was sleeping. I went to your room in the tower, expecting to find you. I was surprised to see it empty and cold. How long have you been here?”

“Six years,” he replied.

I listened as he began to tell me of all that had happened after I had died.

His decision to step down as lord and bestow the title to his brother.

How bitter and cold his first winter in this cottage had been.

How he had struggled through spring, learning how to plant a barley field, how to knead bread, how to care for a flock of sheep.

“Do you live here alone?” I asked, my heart suspended as I waited for his answer.

“Yes. Unless you count Reeve.”

“Reeve?”

Vincent tilted his head. “The dog.”

“Oh.” I glanced at the collie, who was still watching me with one eye.