Page 182 of A Dance of Water

Into the water.

Every wave that crashed into the rocks made her flinch. The black sky made the surface of the ocean appear as an endless hole that could swallow her up.

"It’s okay. I’m okay," she repeated… and repeated.

Maybe one day, she would believe it.

Caught in a maelstrom of memory, she didn’t notice it at first.

A soft caw pierced the misty air.

Luella looked up.

Nestled high upon the eaves of the castle, a spot she would not have noticed if she weren’t truly looking for it, a raven perched. His wings fluttered, and even from such a distance, she saw deep blue eyes staring at her.

An echo of a smile touched her lips.

Her watcher was back.

She released her grip on the railing, flexing her stiff fingers as she lifted a hand in a half-hearted wave—fingers reaching out in a plea.

The raven fluttered his black wings in response, hopping side to side as if in thought before he swooped down from his perch.

Midair, he changed.

Feathers turned to fabric—a flash, one blink, and you would miss it. Graves stood before her. Two inky feathers twirled, floating around the thick folds of his cloak as they drifted to the balcony floor.

Her neck ached from peering up at him. He was without a cowl; the scar on his face looked darker in the dim light. Strands of black hair peeked out from under his hood. The hair on his jaw made her mouth dry, remembering how it had felt against her cheeks.

He stared at her.

She stared at him.

"You’ll catch your death out here," Graves said, voice like rough coal.

In mockery of his words, a sharp gust of wind made her shiver, goosebumps erupting on her bare legs and arms.

It was the first time she had seen his face in a fortnight. She couldn’t look away.

She was so captivated by him, she nearly forgotall about the ocean under the balcony. Until a rumble of thunder shook the sky, tearing her attention away from him and back to the world outside the railing.

From the way she sat, looking out from behind the stone columns, it was reminiscent of her time in the dungeons—behind iron bars. Locked away. But these bars were not rusted iron, but a polished, ornate stone. And the sights beyond were not haunted, dark halls and unlit sconces, but freedom.

Even the ocean.

It called to her, a song in her bones, its roar nearly as loud as the sudden trill of the thread between her and Graves. Nearly.

Leather brushed against her bare shoulder, and she turned, craning her head. Graves extended a gloved hand to her, palm upturned as he waited.

She placed her hand in his. The fabric of his glove was warm and thick, his thumb rubbed absently over the top of her hand as he pulled her to her feet. The skirts of her gown fell back to her ankles as she stood.

She turned her body to the side, keeping the ocean in her view at all times. She would not turn her back on it.

"You won’t speak to me? Did Tharen take your voice, this time?"

How could she tell him that it wasn’t Tharen who had taken her voice, but the mere sight ofhim, standing before her, that did?

He seemed to realize she would not speak right now, for he nodded, a slight dip of his chin, then turned out to face the ocean and mountains, gloved hands braced on the balcony.

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