Page 34 of Wild Reverence

XXIV

A Mere Fancy

MATILDA

We did not speak for a few moments afterward.

I had lied; I did feel pain when the arrow came loose—a sharp sting that made me wince. I wanted to hide my response, this weakness that welled from a mere arrowhead, but I think he felt it, and Vincent surprised me by pressing down on my wound with his palm.

Beneath his hand, my pain dissipated. The torn vessels knit back together within moments, halting the flow of my blood. The ragged edges of my skin remarried into something smooth, leaving not even a hint of a scar behind.

I exhaled, deeply, and Vincent shifted away. My skin felt cold without him; I had not realized how much I had been soaking in his warmth, like a serpent does the sun’s, until he was gone.

Rising, I returned to the chair he had offered, gooseflesh dancing down my arms as I sat.

“Are you cold?” he asked, but he was not looking at me. He was washing my blood from his hands in a basin, the reflection of his face shining in an oval mirror. There was a furrow in his brow, as if he were worried, or anticipating something terrible. As if my presence here made him uneasy.

“No,” I said. Another lie, although I had been born in the coldest reaches of the earth, embraced by stone and jewels that had never known sunlight.

I had dwelled in the expanse of the sky, walking through villas haunted by snow clouds and riding trade winds that had been colder than ice.

Why, then, did the mortal realm sink into me with such bite, with such teeth?

Vincent wiped his hands dry and knelt to toss another log on the fire. His face turned brilliant in the sudden wash of sparks and light, his hair so black it boasted the blue sheen of raven feathers. I was studying him when a rap broke the silence, and he stood to answer the door.

An older woman waited on the threshold, bearing a tray.

She was dressed in simple gray homespun; a cream linen mantle was draped over her head, but a few curls of white hair framed her ruddy face.

And while she did not reach Vincent’s shoulder in height, her aura was one of authority, and I recognized it, instantly.

She was a matriarch in some way, as Orphia was below and Rowena was above.

I decided to take care around her.

“Wine and bandages, as you requested, lord,” she said, taking note of me sitting in the chair, drenched to my bones. The two discarded arrows and pools of ichor, glimmering on the floor. “And perhaps I may find the lady something warm and dry to wear, before she catches cold?”

The gods did not catch cold, and nor did we wear layer upon layer of clothes like mortal kind did. But I sensed how reluctant Vincent was to look at me, dressed in a sheer gown.

“That would be very kind,” I said with a bow of my head.

Vincent took the tray from her. “Thank you, Alyse.”

Shrewd, protective Alyse shut the door, and Vincent returned to the fireside, setting the tray down on a low-slung table. The bandages had come too late, but he poured us each a chalice of wine, and he at last met my eyes as he extended the offering to me.

“So,” he said, settling into the chair across from mine. “You have a message for me?”

Our gazes aligned. My heart quickened when I thought about the words I carried in my pocket, inked by Death’s hand.

For some reason, I did not want to surrender them just yet, because that would mean I had fulfilled the assignment.

There would be nothing else to keep me here, and I wanted to linger, if only for a little while longer.

“I do. But before I deliver it to you… may I ask why a war camp has settled on the eastern bank?”

Vincent smiled, but it was one I had never seen on his face before. Wry and jaded. It made him look far older. “Thirteen years since I last saw you, and you want to speak to me of war ?”

I bit the inside of my lip. Little did he know that the god of war was my salt-sworn ally, and I was more powerful than the little goddess he had once dreamt of.

“Is that a foolish question?” I asked, keeping my voice calm despite the heat that was simmering in me. “Then let me say that I have done many foolish things as a goddess.”

One of them being him, and his dreams, which had irrevocably softened me. Because here I was, sitting with him when I should be below, preparing for Dacre and Enva’s wedding feast. Here I was, remaining behind for something that had died, long ago.

“I never claimed you were foolish,” Vincent said, his tone sharpening. “But surely you can understand my confusion, Matilda. You were in my life until you suddenly were not, and while most of the gods deem us entertainment, a mere means to get what they want, I never thought of you in such light.”

“What, then, did you think of me?”

“You were my friend,” he said, almost a whisper, as if it hurt to speak. “That is the only reason why I am giving you the time of day, allowing you to sit here in my chambers. I am making an exception for you.”

“You would have imprisoned any other divine if they had tumbled in through your window?” I could not hide my shock. It rippled through me, like rings on a lake. “You would have plunged that dagger into their heart, their throat?”

“I certainly would not be sitting here, sharing my best wine with them.”

His irreverence made me feel colder, not because I wanted his worship—I had never desired it—but because I was suddenly fearful for him.

He was not wrong; most gods viewed humankind in lackadaisical ways.

They were fragile like milk teeth; they died with ease, and there was always another to fill the gaps their death made.

Souls were constantly in the throes of death and birth, a cycle that we watched with numb hearts.

But humans who hated us, refusing to kneel or pray or acknowledge our powers, often painted a target upon themselves.

How much could a god bestow on a hardened heart before it shattered?

It often became a game, an obsession, until the mortal either crumbled in surrender or died long before their time.

I did not want that for Vincent.

Let him grow old and wise. Let him find love, and kinship, and gentleness in this dark, bleak world. Let him slip beneath immortal notice like a shadow.

I wanted those things for him. But I also could not ignore the drum of worry in my chest. Already, he had drawn the attention of Fate and Death.

Warin now reigned over rivers, and was no doubt lurking about the banks, waiting for the worst to unfold.

Bade, who should also be aware of the gathering war camp, was far below.

And yet here I was, tossed into the midst of a tangled weaving, uncertain what would happen when the sun rose.

Vincent did not know what to make of my silence, of how I stared at him as if I had never seen him before. He raised the chalice of wine to his lips, and I was struck by a sudden thought.

“ Wait, ” I said, rising in such haste I spilled my own wine. It stained my dress like mortal blood; the air was redolent with hints of currants, dark cherries, oakwood.

He froze as my fingers closed over his, grasping the stem of his cup.

“What is it?” he asked, the words clipped in irritation.

“Let me drink first.”

Vincent stared at me, his breaths shallow, and all I could think was this: The rain was still pattering on the windowsill.

The darkness had gathered like silk; it felt soft and thick, shielding the moon, the stars, the distant glimmer of Skyward halls.

Somewhere, deep in the clouds, thunder rumbled.

Another goddess, mourning Enva’s departure for the under realm.

“You assume it’s poisoned?” he asked with a chuckle, incredulous.

“Why do you think I am here?” I whispered in reply, holding his gaze.

When the clouds break, Orphia had said. But I did not want to take any chances.

Vincent released the chalice. I lifted it to my own lips, sniffing the wine before I took a long draw. Poison would not kill me; it would only loosen my tongue to speak truth. In any other company, I would have hesitated. I would have refused to put myself in such a vulnerable position.

The wine was rich, bold. I held it in my mouth, sifting through its layers. I could taste the season these grapes had been harvested in. The year, which had been seven summers ago. Fruit that had been harvested late beneath low gray clouds. A flood that had turned up golden silt from the river.

I drank, feeling its fire, and knew it was safe.

“Here,” I said, giving him the chalice. “There is no poison.”

“You swam through the river, climbed my tower in the rain, suffered two arrows, only to be cupbearer to me?”

Slowly, I resumed my seat, my cheeks warm. “I am only taking precautions. The message I have for you? It was written by Death’s own hand.”

“Ah, yes. Has she found my soul worthy enough to gather up now?”

I frowned at his sarcasm but recalled Orphia’s words. The hollow ring of them. He was mine to take before one dark solstice night, but I refrained, curious to see who he would become .

I had seen a scar winding its way across Vincent’s abdomen. A blow that should have killed him.

I reached into one of my moonstone pockets, my fingertip tracing the pointed edge of Orphia’s letter, which sat beside the wrinkled, blood-splattered prayer.

Matilda, help me. I let that desperate plea rest—I would carry its weight forever in guilt—and retrieved the message from Death.

I set it on the table beside the wine and bandages.

My delivery had been fulfilled, and the magic released me with a sigh.

Vincent glanced down at the parchment, but he made no movement to accept it.