Page 72 of Wild Reverence

LIII

Bury or Burn

VINCENT

We sat across from each other before the hearth and shared the meal.

Matilda still wore the blanket draped over her shoulders, and her hair was damp and tangled, reluctantly drying.

Upon first glance, she looked the most mortal I had ever seen her—flushed from bathwater, comfortable in her skin.

She looked like she had been born here, a girl who had grown up swimming in the river and harvesting blythe from the rocks.

I could have fooled myself until I looked closer at her, sunshine bright across her face, dust motes spinning in the air around her.

As with all divines, she was beautiful in a way that robbed breath and stole into dreams. I had always thought such of her, even when we were children.

And if this chamber was a pool, she was a pebble tossed within its quiet waters.

Her presence had weight; the very air seemed to gather around her.

I would know she was near, even in the darkness.

And I had never desired to be a god, to wield power as one, but in that moment, I longed to halt time. I would have made an interlude for us, a space when the hour lost its bite and the sun stood still. We could simply breathe and let ourselves unravel this knot between us, slowly.

Our fingers brushed as we both reached for the bread.

Matilda smiled at me. That is when I knew I was doomed, knee-deep in this quandary.

I loved her.

I had loved her for a long time and I did not know what to do about it.

“Why did you do it, Red?” I whispered, unable to hold the words any longer. “Why did you bring my brother back? Why go through so much trouble?”

“I did it for you,” she replied.

My heart tumbled through me. I felt like glass, eager to break, and I had to glance away from her, setting my attention on the fire.

But I thought about all the cuts and bruises that had been on her the night before, when I had helped her undress.

She had been so weary I thought it unlikely she would remember, but I had wiped away her blood, watching her wounds knit themselves together.

I knew that wherever she had been, whatever she had done, had been costly to her.

“Is this something you can do again?” I asked, swallowing. “For another mortal? For a divine who is killed?”

“Yes.”

“What is it like in the wastes?”

I listened as she told me of the landscape, how wasted doors shifted their thresholds when she touched them. She told me of the Gatekeeper, the stories my brother had shared, and the scales he had needed to tip in favor of the mists.

“Nathaniel mentioned that you also gave stories for him at the gate,” I said. “What did he mean by that?”

“Oh. Yes.” Matilda brushed crumbs from her lap.

She suddenly seemed evasive, as if she did not want to answer me.

“I gave him some stories of mine, to help the scales fall. But that is when I realized we did not need to do that. I could bring him back in my own power, and I should have seen it sooner, before I—”

She cut herself off.

“Before you did what?” I asked gently.

“I merely mean that I had this power all along, and I should have felt it, wielded it, before now.”

There was something she was not telling me. I did not know why she felt the need to withhold it, but I did not press. Instead, I said, “Is that why new stars have woken in the sky?”

She went very still, as if I had cast a charm over her.

“New stars?” she echoed. “Where?”

“Beneath your constellation. I noticed them last night.”

Matilda shot to her feet. She began to pace the room, clutching the blanket to her chest.

“That must be what Alva wants to speak with me about,” she murmured, and that name curdled the air.

Whatever had been between us—this moment that we had frozen in time—melted quickly. The sun was sinking in her descending arc. The day was growing older. Time would not stop for us. I rose stiffly to my feet.

“Alva?” I said.

Matilda seemed not to hear. She was already kilometers away from me in her mind, and she returned to the wardrobe.

This time I did not follow her, and she opened the doors, gazing at the clothes within.

Half were mine, half were hers. She let the blanket fall away—her fair skin gleamed in the light—and I turned to the window, unable to breathe.

“How long?” I asked. “How long will you be gone this time? When can I expect you to return?”

I listened to her dress. The soft rustle of the chemise. The clink of beadwork on a bodice.

“I do not know,” she confessed. “When do you need me again?”

When did I need her? I needed her now, and yet I could not bear to say it. To lay myself so bare.

“The mourning sennight will end in five days,” I said. “That is when the conflict will resume. I do not know what Grimald plans next, but Hugh Delavoy is here with his warriors.”

“Good. I should be back well before five days.”

I could hear those strange slippers of hers tap over the floor as she walked closer. I had chosen not to remove them from her feet last night, because I had never seen her without them.

“Can you help me with this?” she asked.

I turned to see she was at a loss with the draws of her bodice, the ribbons hanging limp in her hands. I took them and pulled, watching the crosshatching tighten. She reached out to take hold of my forearms, her breaths skipping like stones over water.

“Is that enough, or do you want more?” I asked.

Her hands fell away from me. Whatever she had been about to say, I would never know. Fireflies winked to life around her. She stared at them as they hovered, their glow reflecting in her eyes.

“Tell him I am coming,” she said, and I heard the slight hitch in her voice, as if she were anxious.

The fireflies relented, vanishing one by one. If I had not been standing before a goddess, I would have thought I had imagined them.

“My father,” Matilda explained to me. “He has just summoned me to court.”

I nodded, although my chest went taut. She did not look at ease, and I remembered what she had once told me of Thile. For all their shared blood, he was not an ally of hers.

“Shall I come with you?” I asked. My voice was light—she would hear it and believe I was only jesting—but I could not deny how those words felt like burs, catching in my throat.

Matilda surprised me. She reached out and caressed my face, her hand warm, gentle. I closed my eyes, leaning into her softness, her strength.

“If there was a way,” she whispered, “I would take you with me.”

We both knew I would never walk divine realms at her side.

Unless I became a shade or a vassal, shackled to the will of the gods, and I knew she would never allow that.

Nor would I ever become immortal, as Adria’s fate had been.

That impossibility had happened once; myths like those were steeped in such magic they would never repeat themselves.

I would always be mortal, beholden to time and age and seasons. I would die, and Matilda would live on.

“I know,” I said, looking at her again.

There was such sadness within her. I could not bear to see her sorrow, and I smiled to hide the ache I felt.

“May I write to you while you are away?” I asked. “As soon as you leave, I am certain there is something I will think of that I will need to tell you.”

“You know how to reach me?”

“If you are below, bury my words. If you are above, I should burn them. To be safe, I should do both at once, because I can never know exactly where you are.”

“Yes,” she said. “I would welcome any words of yours.”

“And what if I wish to hear from you in return? What if I long for your words to reach me while you are away?”

Her hand slipped from my face. But I was certain that she left a mark behind on me. I was convinced that anyone who looked upon my countenance would know her hand had been there.

“That is not the way magic flows,” she said with a hint of exasperation. “You can think of it as the river. Would you wake one morning to find the Wyndrift no longer flowed south but to the north?”

“But you are the herald of the gods, Red. You carry words in your hands. You bear them for everyone else. Why not find a way to send your own?”

“I… that is not how it is done.”

“Have you tried?” I asked.

Matilda was quiet, but I could see that veil coming between us again. Her mind was churning with deep, dark thoughts.

“I must leave,” she said abruptly, moving to the chair where her moonstone belt and enchanted cloak waited for her.

Our interlude of stolen moments had ended.

This time, I let her go without another word.