Page 71 of Wild Reverence

LII

Stay

MATILDA

I woke in a bed that was not mine.

Late-morning sun poured in through the open window.

Beams of buttery light spilled across the green coverlet when I shifted my legs, the sheets soft as a cloud against my bare skin.

A fire was crackling in the hearth, and hints of woodsmoke and fresh-cut herbs stained the air.

It was a peaceful scene to wake to, as if I had just found myself transported to a different realm entirely.

One that was still tucked away and hidden between stars, overlooked by gods.

I sighed, content.

I did not know how long I had slept, but there was no fear lurking within me. I had never felt so refreshed, and as I sat forward, I caught sight of him sitting at his desk.

Vincent’s hair was unbound, its dark waves brushing his shoulders.

He was wearing a simple blue tunic with leather patches sewn over the elbows, and his favorite pair of trousers.

Beneath the desk, his feet were bare. His hands were ink-stained; he was preoccupied with his writing, the nib of his quill scratching words across parchment, and I could just see the edge of his sharp-cut profile, washed in light.

He felt my gaze and set down his quill to look at me, the shadows shifting over his face.

“Good morning.”

I wanted to reply but my thirst became an intense throb in my throat.

I glanced down at my arms. My right one still ached from the cold, but my skin had healed.

There were no more bruises, no more cuts.

I almost wanted there to be scars. Marks for me to trace with my fingertips.

Something to reassure me that it had not all been a fever dream.

I had brought a soul back from the dead.

“How long did I sleep?” I asked.

Vincent rose. He must have heard the crack in my voice; he poured a cup of water and brought it to me, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You slept all night, and most of the morning today,” he replied, watching me drink. “How do you feel?”

I swallowed, thankful to feel the water trickle through me. “I feel fine.”

“You took a hard fall from the tower. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

He had called me Red again, and I had liked it.

But now there were endless questions in his eyes. I could see them, glinting like golden coins at the bottom of a river.

“Your brother?” I said, an anxious beat in my chest.

“He woke in his sepulcher, as if he had only been sleeping.” Vincent fell silent, as if measuring what words to say, and which ones to withhold. “He told me bits and pieces of what he had seen. Of how you guided him home through the wasteland.”

I hesitated, glancing away. “Yes. And no one must know. This must remain between the three of us.”

I did not have to explain why—how my life would be forfeit should my fellow gods learn I had more power than they realized. How enticing my stars would suddenly become. None of the divines had seen a herald as a threat, but a soul-bearer? That was magic they would want for themselves.

Vincent already knew. I could see the worry carve itself across his brow. The light in his eyes dimmed.

“We will keep this secret,” he said, and I believed him. When he saw me shiver, he added, “Shall I heat the water for your bath?”

I nodded. While he stepped into the adjoining chamber, I pulled the coverlet away. I was wearing a chemise. The one I had donned for our wedding night. My belt and cloak were draped over a nearby chair, as was my chainmail.

Vaguely, I recalled the night before, how Vincent had helped me remove the armor. How he had wiped away the dried ichor from my skin, noticing my every bruise, my every wound. How he had drawn the chemise up to my shoulders and laid me down into the center of his bed.

I will be here, by the fire, should you need me.

The last thing I remembered had been him. How he had sat before the hearth limned in dusky light, a book upon his lap, close enough to hear me if I should call out.

I had never felt so safe as I had in that moment.

Sleep had come for me, swiftly.

I mulled over that until he returned to me a few moments later, fragrant steam following him from the bath, and I realized how weak I still was when I stood. My legs were sore when I took a faltering step.

Vincent’s hand took mine as I gracelessly wobbled. He held me steady, and that lingering cold began to melt away.

“I will send for some food while you bathe,” he said, leading me into the next chamber. “Any requests for Cook?”

“At this point, I will eat anything,” I replied, taking in the oddly shaped room.

It was dimly lit by candles and a small crescent moon window that welcomed in a slant of sunshine.

The air was warm and sultry, full of steam that tasted like lavender, rosemary, and sandalwood, and the blue tiles beneath my feet were blissfully warm.

At the center was a generous copper tub, brimming with hot water.

A bed of glowing coals, which Vincent had stoked, was directly beneath it.

Clever, I thought, although a part of me missed the underground rill I had once bathed in.

He released my hand as I stepped closer to the tub. I noticed the different squares of soap that sat on a small table, and the sea sponge to scrub with.

“Do you need me to stay?” Vincent asked.

He was being polite, attentive to my weariness. But I wondered what he would do if I said yes.

I did not need him, but I wanted him.

And yet I could not afford to be soft, especially after the wasteland, which had left me feeling vulnerable, like a page that had started to rip. I worried that if I felt his hands on my skin, if I felt his breath tangle with mine, I would rend completely.

“No,” I said.

He bowed his head and stepped away, leaving me alone in the chamber, the door clicking shut between us.

I unrobed and stepped into the bath, savoring the sting of hot water. How it soaked into me like a balm, chasing away the last nip of Death’s chill from my bones.

I washed my hair and scrubbed my skin, and then I let myself lean back, my neck supported on the edge of the tub. I could stay here for a while, perfectly content, and I was watching the steam rise, my thoughts languid, when I heard the door creak.

“Vincent?”

The steam had grown thick as fog. I could not see through its veil, and I sat forward when I saw there was a shadow approaching.

“Not quite,” a voice replied, familiar and feminine and deeply amused. “It is I. Your friend.”

Those words echoed through me, stirring up an old memory that tasted like ash.

I did not breathe as Alva emerged through the steam, gemstones glittering in her long blond hair.

She stood beside the tub, gazing down at me, her eyes round and piercing as an owl’s.

I was not ashamed of my nakedness, but my throat, my chest… I had nothing to protect myself.

“Why are you here?” I demanded.

“You sound so pleased to see me,” she countered wryly. “Although look at you, fitting in so well with mortal kind. Wearing their clothes, eating their food, sleeping in their beds.”

“What do you want, Alva?”

“I want to speak with you. Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Speak, then.”

She leaned closer. I could smell the under realm, how its sweet, dank air had seeped into her dress.

“What is it like, Matilda?” she asked, her smile growing sharper. “What is it like in the wasteland?”

I was no longer safe here. My heart lodged in my throat as I shot up, the water spilling over the side of the tub, before she could grab me.

My knees and palms hit the tiles; dazed, I scrambled to my feet, taking hold of one of the candelabras.

Candles tumbled to the floor, their beeswax breaking, their flames extinguishing as I wielded the iron like a weapon.

Turning, I faced her as she sauntered close, but she seemed amused by my antics. By how quick I had been to fight.

“How little you trust me,” Alva said with a cluck of her tongue. “I was your ally once, remember?”

I did not reply. I only stared at her, water dripping from my hair.

“My brother wants to see you below,” she finally announced. “As do I. Come and find us.”

With that, she vanished.

I was left reeling, the candelabra trembling in my hands.

How much does she know? My thoughts circled like buzzards. There was a chance she was only trying to intimidate me, hoping I would spill my secrets out of fear. But if she knew I had been in the wasteland, did she also know I had brought back a soul?

She was the goddess of dreams and nightmares.

She must have seen me guiding Nathaniel’s soul through the dark waters.

But the Gatekeeper had also told me Alva had never been able to find the gate to the mists.

She would not have witnessed the exchange there, but she had enough information to piece together what my magic had done.

“Matilda?”

Vincent’s voice broke through the fog. I could hear him; I could feel his hands touching me. My shoulder, my cheek. But I could not see him.

“You’re dreaming,” he said. “Wake up.”

I gasped awake.

I was still sitting in the tub, my neck supported on the copper edge. The water was warm, but the steam had died down. My fingers were pruned, my skin was flushed.

Vincent was kneeling beside me, his eyes intent as he studied my face. His hand slid from my shoulder, and I shivered.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

No, I wanted to say. But I nodded and rose, the water sluicing down my body.

It had not been only a dream. Alva had found me in sleep, stepping into my mind as seamlessly as I stepped through wasted doorways. And I had been too weary, too distracted, to realize it.

I shivered again and Vincent brought a blanket around me.

“Come,” he said, taking my hand and drawing me back into his bedchamber. “The meal is here. I’ve set it before the fire. And there are clothes for you, in my wardrobe.”

I could hardly remember my hunger. My stomach now felt knotted from Alva’s appearance.

I stared at the meal Vincent had arranged for me before the hearth. Dark bread, soft cheese, roasted fish with sliced apples, shining with honey. And yet I turned away from it, my mind racing ahead of me.

My brother wants to see you below.

What could Dacre possibly want with me?

“I need to leave,” I said, moving to the wardrobe.

“Leave?”

Vincent was quick to follow me. When I reached out to touch the wardrobe door, his hand found mine again, pressing my palm to the wood, our fingers splayed and tangled together. He stood at my back, barely grazing me. But how the hair stood on my arms, as if lightning teemed in our blood.

“You have only just returned to me,” he said in my ear, low and gruff. “And I have sat at your side through the night, full of wonders and questions and agonies. I have longed to speak with you. Please… do not leave yet.”

My throat went narrow. I felt an ache in my ribs, the very place where his words still hid, waiting for me to fulfill them. But I let myself sink into the present time, no longer looking ahead or ruminating on where I had just been.

I loved the feel of his hand on mine. The calluses of his skin, the strength of his grip. The way he smelled like wild herbs and wind. He held me to his realm like an anchor, and I savored the pull of his breath in my hair. The promising warmth of his presence at my back.

He must have taken my silence for indecision. I was glad that he could not see my face, how the pleasure rippled through me to feel him so close, to feel him ache for me.

“Stay,” Vincent whispered. “Stay with me a little while longer.”

“How long?” I countered, and my voice betrayed me. I was breathless, and he heard it.

His grip on my hand only tightened, and the hint of pain was welcomed, waking a dark fire in my blood. But then he relinquished me, his fingers sliding away from mine. He stepped back; the air swarmed between us, cold.

“However long you can give me, Red.”