Page 89 of Wild Reverence

LXVIII

Magic to Halt the Hour

MATILDA

It was a dark, rain-streaked midnight when Vincent carried me to the bed.

I settled on my stomach, the coverlet drawn up to my waist, my scars on display. I no longer felt like concealing them; they were part of my story now. A testament to my mistakes as well as my glories.

My blood still hummed with pleasure as I watched Vincent extinguish the candle tapers, one by one, until the only light in the room was from the hearth fire, a pulse of dark red gold.

We only had a handful of hours left before sunrise, and I would have given just about anything to have the power to halt time.

To linger in this moment for as long as we wanted, heavy limbed and glistening, savoring each other.

Vincent climbed into the bed, lying on his side so he could look at me.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, tracing my knuckles with his fingertip.

“I am thinking that I wish this moment never had to end,” I confessed.

He smiled, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. I loved the sight of them, these lines made by years and age and expressions. I loved the shine that I saw in his depths, as if his heart had kindled, and he could not contain the light in his bones.

“We shall live it, again and again,” he whispered. “For as long as you shall have me.”

I breathed in his words, desperate to believe him. But I could not help but think of the shadow Death cast over us.

He must have seen it on my face, and he brushed my eyebrows with his thumb. The edge of my cheek to the bow of my lips, as if he was memorizing me. “My words have made you sad?”

“No, they have given me joy. I am only thinking of what is to come.”

He was silent, watching the firelight dance over my skin. His hand continued to caress my neck, my shoulder, my arm.

My blood began to thrum again.

“In your letter,” I said, and then paused, gathering the words. “You told me that Wyndrift could be my home.”

“Yes. If you would like it to be.”

“I would. But what am I to do when you are gone?”

He was silent, as if my question had robbed him of his voice. I glanced away, desperate to hide the sudden tears that welled in me.

Vincent’s hand came to a rest over my own. I listened to him draw a deep breath, a contrast to my shallow exhale. When he spoke again, his voice was pitched low, a rumble that felt like distant thunder. “Wyndrift will always be yours, even when I am no longer here.”

“This will break us both in the end,” I said. “It will break me, to live on when you have breathed your last. To visit the river, years from now, and see you in every current, in every rainfall, only to remember that you are gone.”

I could bring him back, I thought. If he died tomorrow, I could carry his soul back to the living realm.

I would not let Orphia steal him so easily.

But when he was old and silver-headed—when he had lived the full breadth of his life and his soul thirsted for the mists—I would have to surrender him.

“One day, that moment will come,” Vincent said.

He moved closer until our skin touched. I soaked up the warmth of him.

The song of his blood, red as amaranth, pulsing in his veins.

The quiet strength of his mortality. His legs twined with mine and I felt like I could melt beneath his fire, his certainty.

“You will most likely be sick of me by then. I will be a crotchety old man who complains about the weather and anything that breaks our routine. I will be withered and silver and full of stories that I tell you, again and again, until you could recite them in your sleep.”

I could not help but smile, even as I wanted to weep.

He came even closer, his mouth brushing mine.

“But until then, let us feast and dance and sleep in each other’s arms. I am yours, Red. I will always be yours. Not even Death can change that.”

He pulled the coverlet away, shifting his body until he hovered over me. I felt his breath on my back; I closed my eyes, shivering when he kissed my scars.

“Does this hurt?” he asked.

“ No, ” I whispered. “Please… do not stop.”

My nails curled into the bed as his mouth traced every golden scar on my skin. His lips found my own, his hand cupping my chin. He kissed me, ravenous, and I wove my fingers into his hair, holding him close as his tongue stroked mine.

Let me live in this moment, I thought.

Dawn would never break the darkness. The fire would never burn to ashes. It would always be autumn, and the stars would never dim; the moon would never wane or wax.

We went slower this time. We had been famished before, but now we were curious and languid.

We took our time as if we had eternity sprawled before us, a scroll with endless parchment, a story that never ended.

I felt him move inside me, ebbing and flowing like the tides, his skin hot against my back as if he were a shield for me to arch, to gasp, to rest beneath, his mouth close to my ear, whispering my name, again and again as if it were a litany.

I am yours, he said.

I am yours.

And perhaps we did have the magic to halt the hour.

At least for a little while.

I woke to the sound of my name, a whisper that spun through the darkness like an eddy.

At first, I thought it was Bade, calling for me.

I sat forward, my heart pounding. Vincent’s hand slid across my ribs, his touch warm, possessive. He continued to breathe deeply, undisturbed, his leg brushing mine as if he was keen to touch me, even in sleep.

I was quiet, listening for that voice again, my eyes scanning the chamber.

The fire had smoldered into embers, and the shadows sprawled, thick and cold, across the floor. It was the hour before dawn, the darkest point of the day, and something did not feel right. My skin prickled with gooseflesh as I rose from the bed, careful not to wake Vincent.

His tunic was a heap on the floor. I picked it up and drew it over my head, at once feeling safe, embraced by the wool that smelled like him. I went to the window, curious to see if Grimald’s camp was lit across the river.

My breath fogged the glass panes. I could taste the rain as it continued to pour through the night.

Matilda.

The call came again, louder this time. A familiar, languorous voice, followed by an inner tug that turned my blood cold.

Before I could respond, iron bands flashed across my bare feet. Moss and woven reeds and mica slithered across the floor to cover my toes and twine around my heels, as if I had come from the river.

I gazed down at Warin’s slippers as they magically settled on my feet; they held the force of a riptide, pulling me away.

Acid surged up my throat as I realized what was happening.

He was calling in his loan for the slippers.

“ Vincent! ” My voice emerged strangled, like the wind had been punched from me. His name hardly stirred the air.

I clung to the mortal realm, as if I belonged more to it than above or below. I grasped walls that crumbled into dust, a window that sighed into smoke. It was all intangible; there was nothing to keep me anchored here. The magic was hungry, and I had agreed to this bargain.

It was Vincent, sleeping on our bed, the blankets tangled around him, his bare chest rising and falling, who cut me to the bone.

He was the last thing I saw before Warin’s magic drew me up to his hall between the clouds.