Page 85 of Foresyth Conservatory
The deck felt alive under my fingertips as I pulled the next five. “And now, the last five years of my life. Death, Threeof Swords, the Wheel of Fortune, the Fool, Ten of Wands.” I let the cards settle around me, pausing before I spoke. As I did, a faint, almost imperceptible hum buzzed in my ears. I would have dismissed it as my blood pressure rising, but I knew better by now.
It was magick.
I shook my head, focusing on the cards, pointing a shaky finger at Death. “My father’s death, just over a year ago,” I said, my voice flat. “They found him with a bullet through his head, gun in hand, the blast powder on his fingers,” I said, swallowing the sob that threatened in my throat. “It felt like a puzzle he left behind, one I was meant to solve, but there were no clues to follow. So, it must have been me; I must have been his undoing.”
The buzzing grew louder, but my words felt detached, like they were spilling from someone else’s mouth. “And now, the Wheel, I’m here, searching for answers to the wrong questions, in a house full of monsters, when I’ve always felt like the biggest monster of them all,” I said, but the hum grew so loud that I could barely hear myself anymore. “That I was somehow . . . the cause of his death. I wasn’t good enough, worthy of being his daughter.” I blinked, trying to hold back tears, but it was Sequoia’s gentle hand that wiped them away.
She pulled me close, letting me fall against her chest. She whispered something, but the words blurred. “Shh . . . everything . . . okay,” was all I could make out. But what I felt, instead of hearing, was a sob welling up from deep within me, vibrating up to the top of my head. The sound, I realized, was muffled by Sequoia’s hair. I took a deep inhale, the scent of rosehip and lavender flooding my senses, washing over me like a storm. She smelled like fresh rain.
“You did so well,” Sequoia hushed against my cheek.
Then, there was another presence—the scent of musk and clover, maybe even something faintly burning. I felt Aspen’s hands winding around mine, his thumb tracing gentle circles into the soft space between my fingers.
“We’re here for you,” Aspen said softly.
And for the first time, I believed him.
I melted into Sequoia’s embrace, feeling her body against mine, our limbs tangling together. I found my steady breath again and broke the embrace, our cheeks brushing as I pulled back. The feel of her skin on mine sent a rush through me—a new, yet somehow familiar sensation. Her eyes, brown and swollen—had she been crying too?—locked onto mine, and I felt pierced, almost breathless under her gaze. Her eyes drew to my lips.
I had always been like a lone seedling, desperate to sprout, but now I found myself in a new kind of garden. One full of strange, wicked growth beneath the surface. And yet, there were beautiful things here too, even if equally devastating.
I could no longer deny my truth. I wantedher. And I wantedhim, too.
I stole a glance at Aspen. He was watching us, his gaze fixed, lips slightly parted, and fingers digging into his thighs as though he were bracing himself. A spark ignited in my core at the sight. He gave me an almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t permission, it was encouragement.
I looked back to Sequoia, her eyes equally alight with hunger. It took a fraction of a second before my lips met hers. Sequoia sighed into me and I tasted something I could only describe as spun sugar and lost innocence. I wondered what she tasted on me.
I didn’t care that Aspen was watching. There was even a part of me that was thrilled by the thought of him seeing this moment, of sharing what he had once claimed as his own. I pulled away briefly to meet his heated eyes.
“Your hair . . . it’s beautiful,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand behind my ear. The hunger in his eyes raised my own desire above its breaking point. I looked back at Sequoia, her lips still parted, her gaze still locked on mine. I leaned in again.
We became a tangle of limbs and fingers, her grip mirroring mine, firm and unrelenting. Somewhere in the background, a teacup clattered to the floor with a soft thud. The cards scattered around us like rose petals, as if granting their approval through their constant, low hum growing louder with each touch. My fingers traced the delicate line of her neck, and at some point, she let out a quiet laugh, the sound sweeter than sunset.
I didn’t think; I only felt. Every sense was heightened yet softened, as though we were drifting in a dream.
I broke my kiss with her just to find another warm, welcoming mouth waiting for me. As I kissed Aspen, he smiled against my lips, before biting my lower lip. His earthy scent of musk and clover and wax mixed with hers, lavender and lilac and rosehip.
It was intoxicating, like feasting in Eden.
Mouths opened, but no words formed—only sounds of different pitches and rhythms. A low groan here, a gasp there, a gentle sigh somewhere else. Nothing mattered except this moment, this suspended fragment of existence, where I felt myself transforming.
In that sacred, entangled embrace, I became something I had always longed for. No longer a solitary seedling, I was a blossoming bud of pleasure.
I was a flower in the garden.
Growing, growing, growing.
Chapter 28: The Tree and the Runes
The next morning, I woke to the gentle pattering of rain against my window, a soft rhythm against the glass that felt almost conspiratorial. My body ached, but not from exhaustion. The scent of rosehip and clover still lingered on my skin, woven into the sheets, as if the night had left its mark on me in more ways than one.
I turned onto my side, reveling in the cool press of linen between my bare legs. My fingers drifted absently over my arms, my stomach, recalling the weight of hands that weren’t mine, the press of lips that had left no space between wanting and taking. Heat coiled low in my belly, lazy, lingering—until it collided with the sharper edge of regret.
My lips parted on a breath that felt too shallow. Sequoia’s sigh against my mouth, Aspen’s hand at the nape of my neck—it all flickered through me like an afterimage burned into my skin. I had let them in.
Worse, I had wanted to.
I had given in to the very thing I had spent my life resisting.
