Page 11 of Lakesedge

He holds out a hand and I let him help me down from the horse. I stumble as my feet touch the ground and, without thinking, grab hold of his cloak to steady myself. He looks at me intently. I start to shiver, and his mouth tilts into a sharp smile. “Don’t tell me you’re cold, even with those woolen stockings?”

“I’m fine.” I shove him away and go quickly to where Arien stands, dazed, beside the other horse. I pull him into an embrace.

“Are you okay?” I touch his cheek; he’s pallid in the moonlight, tired and worried, but not hurt.

He nods, wincing as he rubs at a cramp in his thigh. “Everythingaches.”

The wayside cottage is dark, the windows closed up and tightly shuttered. The roof is tangled with a wisteria vine and the heavy perfume from the flowers chokes the air.

I reach for Arien, take his hand, and hold it tightly as we step inside.

Chapter Four

The room is hot, and illuminated only by a single lantern set on the table. On the wall opposite the shuttered windows is an altar. The icon shows the Lady with her head bowed and palms upturned, twin vines uncoiling between her fingers. A row of guttered-out candles sits underneath.

The monster kneels by the hearth, coaxing alight a small fire. His hair is knotted from the wind, and there’s a smudge of dust on his cheek. The firelight dances over him, paints his tanned skin with amber and orange. But even like this—golden and beautiful—I can’t forget what he truly is. The wrongness clings to him. Even the darkness that pools in the corners of the room seems to stretch out and gather at his feet.

He takes a fistful of twigs from the wood box and throwsthem into the reluctant flames. I look at his hands and picture his fingers wrapped around a throat. When I close my eyes, the image stays. A white face, blurred beneath water, a rush of bubbles that spills out in a terrible, silent cry.

He gets to his feet when he hears us come in. He sweeps the hood of his cloak back over his hair and tilts his head toward the door. “Arien. A word.”

He puts his hand on Arien’s shoulder and guides him outside. Florence catches my arm when I move to follow them. “No. That isn’t your concern.”

“He’s my brother.”

“Yes, he is.” She’s nearly as tall as the monster, and the way she looks at me is almost as frightening. “And he’s right outside. He’ll be perfectly safe.”

Outside the open door, Arien and the monster stand in a circle of lamplight. The monster is speaking rapidly, his voice low and indistinct. I strain to listen, but I can only catch scraps of his words.

“Two days… the full moon…”

“Here.” Florence pushes a tin kettle into my hands and nods to the corner, where there’s a sink. “Go and fill this for me.”

I clutch the kettle against my chest and go over to the sink. I shove the kettle under the spout, hard. The edge catches with a loud clang. The bowl of the sink is filled with dried leaves and the crumbled bodies of dead moths. The pump handle is stiff. I grip it tightly and lean all of my strength into it. The waterspills loose, rust tinged, splashing the front of my dress and washing the dust of wings and leaves into the drain.

I fill the kettle, my eyes fixed on the door. The monster leans closer to Arien. His mouth shapes the same word over and over. Arien shakes his head and tries to back away. He darts a nervous glance toward me, his teeth dug into his lip.

I hand the kettle to Florence, who has started to unpack a makeshift dinner from one of the bags she brought with her. I cross the room quickly, and the monster cuts to a sudden silence when he sees me approach. He turns and walks away, farther outside, until he’s almost completely swallowed up by the night.

I put my hand on Arien’s cheek. “What was he asking you?”

He closes his eyes and leans his face against my palm. “Nothing.”

“Arien. Tell me.”

He looks warily to where the monster has gone, far off in the dark. “He said—”

“Nothing,” the monster calls. His boots crunch against the ground as he comes back into the room. He folds his arms, leans his shoulder against the doorframe. His eyes narrow at me coldly. “It was nothing.”

The darkness behind him is like the depths of a well, but his face is lit by the lamp. He has more scars around his throat. Sharp, blackened marks that wreathe his skin like a necklace of thorns. My fingers rise, unbidden, to trace across my own throat.

What hurt him? What made those terrible marks?

And then, for just a moment, the veins in his throat turn…dark. Just like they did in the village. The light reflected in his eyes turns crimson.

Anxiously, I look around the room, from the shuttered windows to the opened door. The olive grove is a wall of shadows beneath the moonlit sky. How many steps would it take us to run from the wayside to the trees? My mind races as I try to calculate if we could get there fast enough. If we could reach the forest before the monster caught us.

The kettle begins to steam with a piercing whistle. I jolt, my breath stuck, as blotches of white close across my vision. I fight to drag air through my tightened lungs as Florence moves the kettle from the heat. She puts it heavily onto the iron stand, then takes down a stack of enamelware cups from the shelf above the benchtop.

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