Page 50 of Wild Reverence

I found that I could not look at him. My heart quickened and I rose, pacing the hall. But I craved the vastness of the moors, the solemn stretch of the sky, the quiet of the under realm, and I paused before one of the windows, savoring the sun on my skin.

“Once,” I said. “Long ago, when I was naive and seeking my place in the Skyward realm. Warin wanted me, but it wasn’t due to love. Or yearning.”

Vincent was quiet for so long I thought he would not answer, until I heard the chair scrape across the floor. I felt his presence draw close to mine, joining me in the sunlight.

“If the god of spring and iron and rivers lost you”—Vincent’s voice was a rumble, close to my ear—“then he is more foolish than I thought possible.”

A sad smile stole across my face. “I was never his to lose.”

“I doubt that, Matilda. The way he clung to you last night, forcing you off the bridge with him. Only a weak man—a weak god —would do such a thing. He is still trying to hold on to you when he knows you have already slipped through his fingers.”

That ache in my chest turned vibrant.

Pain welled, sharper than any arrow, and I turned to leave, desiring to be alone. My haste only made the cloak slip from my shoulders. The bruises had healed, although I could have still traced the very places they had been, dappling my skin in gold. But my chemise was ripped, and Vincent noticed.

His hand reached out, touching me on the ribs. The very place I had shown him to caress the night before, the very place the fabric had torn. I did not realize how cold I was until I felt his palm against my skin. I almost melted, I almost sighed, beneath his touch.

“Did he hurt you?” Vincent whispered.

“No.”

“Look at me.”

The urgency in his voice broke my resolve to stay aloof. My eyes lifted to his.

“No gate will be barred from you again,” he said. “If you command them to rise, they will rise. If you need sanctuary, my people will grant it. I could not reach you in time last night. I was still sleeping when I heard there was trouble on the bridge.”

I did not know what to say. He had stolen my words with his own, with this promise he had given me.

And so I did the only thing I could think of. The first prompting that came to me.

I reached into my moonstone pocket and withdrew his blood-soaked prayer, cradling it between us.

Vincent recognized it. I could feel him stiffen; his hand—the very one that had inked those desperate words—drifted from my side as he watched me unfold the parchment.

Matilda, help me.

“You wrote this to me years ago,” I said. “And I have only just received it. I would have come to you instantly that night, as soon as you called, had this letter found me when it should have. If I had not been Skyward.”

“It does not matter now,” Vincent said, but the inflection in his voice had changed. He was guarded again, as I had been earlier.

“Oh, but it does. The enemy of that long-ago night has returned to you. This time, I will answer.”

I opened my mouth and set the parchment on my tongue. Vincent watched, drawing a sharp breath. His inked words melted between my teeth. The parchment stained with his blood turned into milk, sweetened as if by honey, and I swallowed it whole.

It trickled though me, filling empty places I had not known dwelled in me. And for a moment, I felt a shade of his anguish. It coursed down my side, the very skin that was exposed by rent fabric, before it settled in my bones like marrow.

A tether formed between us. Invisible but undeniable. A cord wound from my rib to his.

“And what,” he asked thickly, as if he also felt the pull to me, “do my words taste like?”

“Like moldering parchment.”

Vincent blinked, frowning. “Like what ?”

“I tease you, lord. Your words are sweet, golden. Milky.”

“That does not seem to be any more reassuring than moldering. And I do not understand why you must eat the prayers. Of all things.”

“Because they are now a part of me as they were once a part of you,” I replied, and I could have laid my hand upon the curve of them.

How they hid in my ribs. “There are some gods who may devour them, if only to chase after a mortal feeling, however ephemeral it may be, or to crush mortal hearts in spite. But I am taking yours upon my tongue to show you that I am dedicated to you in this trial. I will hold myself to you, at your side; I will not abandon you or steal off into the night or betray you. I will grant you an answer, although I hope we are victorious. And if I must leave, you may rest knowing that I will return to you, as soon as I am able.”

Vincent glanced away, his fingers tracing his jaw and the dark stubble that had grown overnight. My declaration had not stirred the reaction I had thought it would, but then it occurred to me…

“Unless you would rather release me,” I said. “I know you are not devout, and you wrote those words years ago. I know you have changed, as have I. Tell me now, if you want the prayer revoked. I will do whatever you want, whatever you believe is best.”

He stared at me a long, hard moment. His eyes did not seem so dark this morning, favoring a shade of gray like dove feathers. He cupped his hand and whispered, “How would you give my words back, should I want them here again, in my palm?”

I swallowed and reached for the dirk, sheathed on his belt.

Slowly, I leaned back upon the table, setting the blade to my exposed ribs.

“I will have to cut them out,” I said, and was preparing to break my skin to the bone when Vincent followed me like a shadow, like his body was indeed bound to mine.

He stepped between my legs. His hand wrapped around my own, staying the motion.

“Then let them be,” he said.

“I have felt worse pain, if that is—”

“ No. You will not bleed for me again.”

I quieted, but I held his gaze as he continued to stand over me. His hair dripped water onto my arms.

“Did you follow me last night?” I asked. “Into the river?”

He said nothing, but his jaw clenched as he released me, taking his dirk and slipping it into the leather sheath.

“The evacuations are beginning,” he said, avoiding my query. “More people than I anticipated are eager to go.”

“To Drake Hall?”

“Yes. It will take a slow-moving party two days to reach Hugh’s holding, but I can return in one, making it back to Wyndrift before my uncle’s time is up. I hope to return with Hugh’s warriors.”

“Then I will meet you here with allies of my own,” I said, imagining an introduction between Vincent and Bade. It would be like night meeting day, and it made me shiver; I would worry about that later. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No,” Vincent said, striding from the hall. But he glanced over his shoulder to add, “I will see you soon. Wife. ”

I watched him leave, that word— wife —fading in the air between us like the note of a lyre.

He had given me the power to lift gates, but I thought it best if I went by door. And I decided it was time that I found the one that hid in this tower. The door that opened to the dark, bejeweled place I had been born.

The under realm.