Page 85 of Wild Reverence

“I think the better question is what would it not do?” Alva countered.

“I am the only Underling who knows you can enter the wasteland. I know you can step into dreams. I know you wear the Gatekeeper’s eye on your belt.

I know you are soft toward mortals, and that you ride upon eithrals.

I know those six new stars belong to you, and that your power is far greater than any of us once believed.

” She paused, and I could not deny how my heart faltered.

“You could say that I have been waiting for this moment. For you to grow into a goddess and return to the court here. I helped you become who you are, and I think it is only fair that you pay me my due.”

“Pay you?” I said, smothering an incredulous laugh. “For what?”

“All those dream scrolls I let you read. All those times I covered for you when your mother was keen to glean your secrets. When I let you go at the Dark Lake Door.”

She had not let me go. I had slipped through her grasp like the wind.

It occurred to me that Alva did not want a mere alliance, as she was claiming. She wanted to control me. To harness my power for her own.

And perhaps she felt threatened by me. By the fact that I could step into the wasteland when she could not. The fact that I could likewise enter nightmares and dreams. Her domain.

“I know far too much about you, Matilda,” Alva murmured, leaning forward. “It would be wise to have me as an ally. I can protect you here.”

Her words sluiced down my skin like cold sweat as she tapped her goblet to mine. A forced toast. She wanted me to drink with her, to open the floodgates of all my secrets. To trust her.

Before I could lift the wine to my lips, another knock sounded on the door.

“Who is it?” Alva snapped.

“It is me, sister. I have something for you.”

Enva.

I recognized her sultry voice, the way it hung like perfume in the air.

Alva set her goblet down with a hard clunk, her jaw flexing. “She has been a pebble underfoot,” she muttered to me. “And yet my brother has ordered me to indulge her to help make her content here. As if she is a petulant god-child.”

I only bit my tongue, watching as Alva rose to answer the door a second time.

Enva did not wait for an invitation. As soon as the oakwood swung open, she crossed the threshold in a swirl of colorful skirts. Her harp was belted to her back over a violet cloak, and her long black hair was loose and shining from oil, adorned with small blue flowers.

“Ah, Matilda,” she greeted me, as if I were a surprise. “I have missed you at the wedding feasts. But how good to see you here, visiting my sister. I thought to entertain you both. A new song I have written. Dacre has encouraged me to play for others, and so here I am.”

She sat on a stool beside me and brought the harp to her lap, letting it rest against her shoulder.

She plucked a few idle notes, awakening the instrument.

It had all happened so abruptly that Alva could only gape at the intrusion.

And while I wanted to protest myself—for all I loved Enva’s music, I did not have time for this —I could only hold my breath.

This was not like Enva.

In the Skyward court, she was elegant and mysterious, like a pool of dark water. She was reserved and solemn, unguarded only when she was amongst divines that she trusted. She did not play so openly in my father’s hall; oftentimes, we had to beg her for her music.

No, this bubbly, vivacious goddess who had spun into Alva’s burrow was not the Enva I knew.

At first, I wondered if dwelling below had changed her so greatly that it was like looking at a fractured version of her. But then she met my stare, and I saw a warning gleam in her eyes.

This was an act. And she had not come here for Alva, but for me.

I settled deeper into my chair, setting the wine aside.

“A quick song, then,” said Alva, but her voice was clipped. Irritation bracketed her mouth as she resumed her seat. “Matilda has places she needs to be.”

“Oh, I will not play long,” Enva insisted, smiling brightly at Alva. “Thank you for indulging me.”

So she had overheard Alva’s words.

The air turned sour, awkward, until Enva began to play in earnest.

There was not a time I could remember when I had not loved her music. When I was still a child, burning Skyward coins just to hear a piece of it. When I had at last ascended to my father’s court, and her strumming had been transcendent, flowing over us like milk, feeding us like honey.

As her song swelled now, filling every corner of Alva’s burrow, I let myself sink into those notes.

And because I had heard her music above, I realized it sounded slightly different here in the under realm.

Her music seemed richer, darker, reminiscent of blood spilling over silk.

As I watched her deft fingers pluck the strings, the notes held a faint glimmer; I could nearly see them in the air, like a beam of sun in rain.

She began to play a lively tune. One that I felt in my bones.

I smiled and began to tap my foot. I had swallowed all the light, all the summer rain, all the first fruits, and I was triumphant. I was made from smelted gold, from fragrant smoke and brilliant heat, and when laughter climbed up my throat, I let it loose.

It seemed to twine with Enva’s music, as if the ballad was complete now—silver plucked notes and immortal voice, rising and falling with each other.

Across from me, Alva began to clap. Her face was radiant as a full moon. She was youthful, as if all her scheming and plotting had melted and she was a happier version of herself. What had we been discussing? Was it something dire?

Why had I come to her burrow to begin with?

I found that I could not remember.

I only knew what was directly before me: zestful music that made my heart dance. Alva and Enva, one who was like the sun, the other the moon. Both of whom were power cloaked in beauty and prowess and skill. And I never wanted this jubilant moment to end. Let it go on and on, defying time itself.

I do not know how long Enva played the happy ballad, but all too soon, her nimble fingers began to slow. The notes she plucked shed their fervor for something else. A song woven with sorrow and heartache.

At once, my foot ceased its tapping. My laughter was eclipsed by tears. Alva’s clapping ended. Our smiles and luster dimmed like stars at dawn, and we now leaned forward, hungry to soak in Enva’s sad notes, even as they felt like thorns.

This was a bittersweet song, resurrecting painful memories. The ones I held deep but did not want to retrace in my mind. The ones that had sadly made me who I was.

My eyes became fountains, and I wept. It seemed to be another requirement of this song—the notes needed my tears; they needed the sound of my anguish. It fed Enva’s music, like I was tossing meat to an eithral, building up her strength.

I was not the only one to weep. Alva was also sobbing, long-nailed hands covering her face. It was agony but it was also a release, a cleansing. But beneath our keening, I heard a distant thought, hacking through my emotion.

Am I being compelled?

My heart was beating a heavy cadence. It tried to rise from the despair— this is not real, this is a spell —and yet that logic was like a wasp, droning at my ear, evading my hand.

Soon, I could not weep and chase after that haunting suspicion. I gave myself wholly to the sorrow, until it felt like I had cried myself dry, and my voice was hoarse.

Enva shifted the song again.

Her fingers played even slower now, but the notes had transformed from a lament to a lullaby.

Instantly, my weeping ended, as did Alva’s.

We lifted our red-rimmed eyes to watch Enva’s pale hands pluck sweet, gentle notes.

I thought of the purr of a cat. A patch of sunlight.

The effervescent waters of summer, flowing through the underground rill.

The scent of fresh-cut herbs. A cup of warm wine, shot through with clove and cinnamon.

The strong arms of someone holding me, their embrace not a fetter but a place of refuge.

I exhaled, slow and deep.

My shoulders began to sag. My bones felt heavy as iron.

I could not keep my eyes open.

Slowly, like a boat that had been loosened from the quay, I began to drift out to open sea. I began to surrender to sleep.

There was a sharp tug in my ribs. Inked words, nestled there. Words that were not my own.

Matilda, help me!

I could hear Vincent’s voice. I could see a glimpse of his face, lined with agony. Not even the thought of him or the longing that crackled through me could hold me tethered to the waking world.

I plunged into a deep, dark slumber.