Page 103 of Wickedly Ever After
Tinbit turned to look at Hector. In the moonlight, his brown skin took on a transparent sheen.
Hector flinched. “Can I sit with you?”
Tinbit jerked his head at the stone by his side.
Hector took a seat. “I didn’t want this to happen. I wanted you to be happy.”
Tinbit hurled another rock. “Some people aren’t supposed to be happy.”
“But there have been times you seemed content.”
“Until him, I was. Honestly, Hector, I should throw myself off this cliff and be done with it.”
“Tinbit, please—”
“You can’t fix everything, Hector. You did the best you could, but the problem is me. I was a fool to think Hari could ever love me.” He buried his face in his hands. “I wish I’d never sent that letter. I wish I’d never talked to him. I wish I’d never touched him and known what it was to be touched by hands that wanted me. Loved me. Held me. Oh, Gods, Hector—why did you have to raise me?” He wailed.
A million images of that horrible day returned to Hectorwith painful clarity. The skeletal housekeeper coming into his room instead of Tinbit, telling him a ghost wanted to see him. Then the icy chill in Tinbit’s terrified eyes as he stood, a shade in the dark, gazing at his body, lying stiff and cold in his own bed, and the belladonna and aconite weeping a dark, miserable stain where in his death throes he’d knocked the cup over on the floor. He hadn’t done it on purpose—it had been an accident, too much poison for too much pain…
It had been pure selfishness on his part, seeing Tinbit’s dead body, knowing his poisons had done it. But guilt was a poor motivation for bringing a man back from the dead.
He touched Tinbit’s shoulder. “Because I loved you. You deserved so much more life than you had.”
“And you deserved a living person as a companion.”
“So did you,” Hector said. “You still do.”
“Well, neither of us are getting that, are we?” Tinbit hurled another rock into the abyss.
No, he supposed not. He folded his hands in his lap. “If I told Hari about you, would that make it easier?”
Tinbit shook his head. “I don’t want him to know. Let him hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He’s just angry.”
“I deserve it. I shouldn’t have said that to Ida. I shouldn’t have said that to you. Hari was right. You couldn’t help it. It’s the spell.”
“Yes.” But he was no longer sure. “Come back with me. I’ll fix your face, and we’ll sort this out by daylight.”
Tinbit took Hector’s hand, and impulsively, Hector pulled the gnome against him and hugged him. “I’m sorry,” he said brokenly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Tinbit wept. The moonlight shivered through him, showingthe loving detail with which Hector had knit the bones together by magic, clothed the frame with flesh, and the heart, still and silent, in the cage of bones making up the most precious and difficult construct he’d ever made.
Tinbit took some fixing once Hector carried him back to the stable room. Strong emotions were never good for the dead, and tears were worse than acid. He patched the tissue with care, pressing it back and melding it to the bones.
“I’m sorry, Hector,” Tinbit muttered. “I shouldn’t have cried—it just came out. I love him, and now he hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Hector said again. “If you’ll talk to him—”
“I’m not speaking to him, except, of course, politely. If he asks me the time of day, I’m going to politely tell him to go fuck himself.” Tinbit touched his face, and it seemed to meet with his approval, because he stood, left the bed, and went to find a mirror.
Hector, exhausted now, hands bloody and coated in dark magic, lay down on the bed. Somewhere, out on the mountain, ten strong trees who should have lived for many, many years yet, had shriveled up and died. Nausea twisted his stomach, his back ached, his shoulder hurt, and the warm, loving moment he’d spent with Ida felt like the faint scent of her wafting up from the sheets—fleeting and ephemeral.
He’d been so close to doing exactly what she wanted—standing up with her and telling the rest of the Council that Happily-Ever-After was ruined, unfixable, and he would not be part of it anymore. A million wonderful prospects would open up to him then. He saw his little gingerbread house in the woods—a gift from his mentor so long ago—bright with life and happiness. Hesaw himself in the kitchen, pulling out a tray of fresh gingerbread, calling out to Ida that it wouldn’t be warm forever, her hands wrapping around his waist, dirty from potting out the little skunk cabbages in their bog garden, turning to kiss her, and then forgetting the gingerbread entirely to pick her up and carry her to their bedroom. All of these years, and he finally knew what he wanted. And now that he knew, he couldn’t have it.
Ida had asked him what would happen to the dragons, the goblins, the giants—everyone who depended on him. Amber might be right. The dragons might have outgrown the need for his protection, but what about the others? What about the one who meant the most? Who would patch Tinbit up the next time he fell for the wrong man and fell apart as a result?
His jaw firmed. There were no happily-ever-afters for the wicked. He’d sampled what love could be; he’d seen what it would cost him. He couldn’t justify it.
