Page 47 of Violet Thistlewaite Is Not a Villain Anymore
“I’d tell you that you’ll get used to it but it honestly smells worse every time I open the tin.”
“I suppose it would be shortsighted to tell you to stop working on the antidote for the blight in order to find a way to make this smell less awful, wouldn’t it?”
His lips twitched. “Believe me when I say I’m tempted.”
She looked at the tin to distract herself from the way her neck flushed with heat at the sight of his smile. “Is there anything special I should do?”
“Just rub it into your hands. I’ll fetch us some water.”
Violet nodded to her half of the greenhouse. “There’s some in the pail by the door.”
He dutifully fetched the bucket from the ground near her worktable. They were each standing on the other’s territory, and it made Violet entirely too aware that she now knew what this man’s mouth felt like against hers, that later tonight she would draw to memory the scratch of his stubble against her skin. As he returned to her side, his eyes darted across her face in a way that made her think maybe he was thinking the same thing. Moons, what had she done? Silence settled over them as they washed the blight from their hands. Violet couldn’t hold back her embarrassment any longer.
“About earlier,” she began at the same time he said, “Can we discuss—?”
They both cut off abruptly. “You go first,” he said awkwardly, and Violet wanted to call the earth to bury her where she’d never have to have this conversation. Why was this so difficult?
“You and I have been in a better place lately, haven’t we?” she began. “The chalkboard signs aside—and to be clear, those are all in good fun—we’ve been getting along.”
“We have.”
She kept her eyes on her hands as she scrubbed. Horrible though the smell might be, Nathaniel’s soap really did make it easier to remove the rot. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you better. And I didn’t mean to jeopardize that earlier by presuming anything.”
“You haven’t.”
His words took a moment to catch up to her, and her thoughts stuttered. Violet dragged her gaze to his and found him watching her, the dark brown of his eyes almost black in the dim light. It was a different type of watching than she’d grown accustomed to from him. Heavier. She felt naked under this kind of attention. How much could he see?
He offered her a clean handkerchief to dry her hands and dipped his hands in the bucket to wash his own. The soft slosh of the water in the pail played harmony to the pounding in her ears. When Violet offered him back his handkerchief, he clasped her fingers in his, the damp cloth held between them like a spiderweb hung between eaves, gossamer and delicate, so easy to break.
He came closer, tugging her by her fingertips until her hand lay against his chest, and fear tugged at Violet’s heart even as she felt the reckless pounding of his. She was leaving. She couldn’t stay. Couldn’t risk her future for this man, beautiful and infuriating and igniting as he might be. The way she felt right now, like he’d turned aside the soil that buried her heart and found the glowing seed that took root beneath, was nothing but a passing fancy. No matter that he’d listened to her, no matter that he’d helped her with her nightmares. Violet had worked too hard to escape her identity as the Thornwitch to let it all come to light now. She couldn’t bear to see the look on his face—or Pru’s or Quinn’s or any of her other new friends—if they found out about her past.
Nathaniel’s mouth hovered over hers, asking for permission, and Violet wanted so badly to grant it.
But no, it was better that she leave. Without complications.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, pulling her hands from his. “I’m so sorry, Nathaniel, I can’t.”
She mourned the light when it left his eyes, wanted to snatch away the familiar stiff mask when it settled back over his face. He scraped a clean hand through his hair, missing a single curl that she wished she could push back from his eyes, and cleared his throat. “I understand.”
“It’s not that I don’t—”
“No, I understand,” he said stiffly, offering her a weak smile. “It’s…this would be a distraction. I have the shop and…”
If Violet could wind back the clock just a moment and redo it, she would have, if only to bring back the look he’d had, like he truly saw her, instead of the wooden expression he wore now. “Nathaniel…”
He jerked at the sound of his name. “I should check on Daisy. I’ve left her alone too long. She’s probably eaten another of my shirts by now.”
He rushed for the door, turning back to her with his hand on the knob.
“Good night, Violet,” he said, then disappeared.
She waited until he was back inside the building before leaving the greenhouse and darting into her shop. Violet closed her eyes and pressed her back to the closed door, taking in the familiar scent of flowers and dirt and plant life. Moons and stars, but she loved this place. Every shelf she’d grown from a stick, every plant she’d conjured from a thought—even Bartleby had settled into his corner shelf above the counter with the territorial ease of a jaguar waiting to pounce from a tree branch.
She’d be sorry to leave it.
Violet opened her eyes, looking around at the space she’d so lovingly crafted. Her gardens at Shadowfade Castle had always felt like her safe place, a respite from the chaos and the constant infighting among Shadowfade’s other minions. But at the end of the day, they’d always belonged to him. She’d only been able to grow them on his good graces, and more than once he’d burned her hard work to the ground in retaliation for a job that hadn’t gone as expected or, in the end, for saying no to a job in the first place. Guy’s love, when betrayed, soured quickly, but still, he’d allowed her to grow, to flourish, to build as she pleased in those gardens, and it was more than she’d ever had before.
Until now.
