Page 32 of Wild Reverence

When I reached the bedrock of his tower, I paused to rest my palms upon the slick stone.

There were tiny cracks that I could use as purchase for my fingertips and toes.

I had been born surrounded by such stone, but I had never scaled it in such a daunting manner.

Doubt made me waver until I began to pull myself up, and the slippers gripped the footholds with ease, their enchantment aiding me.

I climbed, rising out of the river.

My dress was heavy, weeping water. Hair clung to my neck like skeins of yarn, and my cloak flapped wildly, tugging at my collarbones as if to exclaim, Have you lost your mind?

“Do not fight me,” I murmured, continuing my ascent. “Make me a shadow.”

Breathless, I fixed my eyes upon the distant turret and Vincent’s illuminated window. The rain continued to pour; the clouds had not broken yet. There was still time for me to unravel the pattern Fate had woven for him, and yet my thoughts scattered like glass, racked by sudden nerves.

Would he recognize me? Remember me? I had not planned a dialogue, but perhaps I should have when I was traveling the riverbed…

A shout broke my momentum.

I paused to glance over my shoulder, looking at the eastern bridge.

I did not think I was the inspiration for the alarm until an arrow whizzed past me.

Someone had spotted me from one of the bridge towers, as impossible as that seemed with the cover of darkness.

But then I noticed the vermillion shade of my cloak, how it was like a burnished ruby catching the dying light.

It had drawn their eyes to me, refusing my request for invisibility, and I was tempted to yank the fabric from my neck and let it fall to the river in punishment.

“ Traitor, ” I whispered, and continued my climb.

The cloak only flapped, indifferent.

Grumpy, indeed.

Another arrow clattered against the stone, a hairsbreadth from my sinister hand.

I hurried my pace. I was almost to Vincent’s window. I could almost feel the firelight wash over my face when an arrow caught me in the back, just beneath my shoulder blade.

My body froze, more from shock than pain. It was only a minor inconvenience, a slight sting of discomfort in my lungs, and I continued my ascent, listening to my heart thunder through me.

At last, I reached the window. A triumphant grin spread across my lips; I could taste the rain as I heaved myself upward onto the sill.

A second arrow stung me in the calf. But again, it was something I could handle later, and I did not feel the arrow’s bite as I tumbled into Vincent’s room. I would have preferred a more elegant arrival, but this would have to do for now.

I felt his gaze.

Slowly, I lifted my chin to look at him.

He was not on his bed, slumbering, as I expected him to be.

No, he stood by the hearth wearing only his trousers.

The firelight danced over his bare skin, highlighting the contours of his shoulders, his chest, and a long scar that wound across his abdomen like a serpent.

Water shone on his freshly shaven chin; he had been washing his face, and his cheeks were reddened.

The tang of dried herbs and tallow soap hung in the air.

My presence seemed to enchant him into stone. He did not move; he did not even seem to be breathing. But then the outside world seeped in. Alarmed shouts from the bridge, followed by the pound of booted feet hurrying up tower steps to reach their lord and his presumed assassin.

His name caught in my throat like a splinter.

Vincent.

I yearned to say it, but his face was harsh as he stared at me, disbelief surrendering to anger.

“Who are you?” he asked, reaching for the dirk on his hearthside table. The steel flashed in his hand. “What do you want?”

His voice was smoky, deep. It pulled on me like the tides, keen to stir up old memories.

So he did not remember.

And I remained on my knees, my ichor beginning to drip from my wounds. Pain ripped through me like wet parchment when I drew a shaky breath. It was strange; the discomfort did not stem from the arrows but something inward, as if a bone of mine had fractured, or an organ had been pierced.

I had not felt such agony in a long time, and I willed myself to be cold. To mend whatever seam this moment had torn open. Let ice grow over my bones until they would not break, and I would not feel, and I would not regret what could have been.

Vincent walked to me, ignoring the knocks on his door. The voices that were calling to him, desperate.

Even as he drew close, I did not move. My hair was tangled across one side of my face, down my neck. I was drenched, weighed down by river water, and I swallowed when he reached me, close enough that I could have touched his legs.

I held his gaze, frozen. But a shiver coursed down my spine.

He gave a sharp inhale, as if he had been struck. His posture went rigid; his gray eyes widened like he was drowning.

The dirk slipped from his fingers, clattering on the floor.

And then came his voice again, soft and unguarded. Something I could recognize, as if we had met in a dream.

“Matilda?”