Page 149 of Anathema

“It’s okay. I want this.”

“You don’t know what this is.”

I reached out for him, and he nearly tripped over himself to back away. Pangs of humiliation coiled in my stomach and burned in my already heated cheeks. “Did I …. Did I do something wrong?”

“I need you to leave. Now.”

“Not until you tell me if I did something wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong. Now, go.”

Without another word, I made my way to the door, his warm, spicy flavor still burning my lips.

“Maevyth,” he called out for me, and I paused, with my hand on the lever. “We can never do this again.”

Without another word, I slipped out of his office.

Small, white sachets sat stacked on the settee, alongside a wooden bowl of mixed herbs that I’d gathered from the kitchen. Lavender and chamomile, star anise and thyme, mugwort and peppermint. A separate bowl held dried asphodels that Magdah kept on hand as protection against the Deimosi.

I slid the stems of dried baby’s breath and lady’s mantle through the fabric of the sachet, my head tormenting me with thoughts. Thoughts of strong hands across my skin, fingertips rubbing and caressing warm and swollen flesh, salt on my tongue and teeth at my throat. His lips, and that delicious flavor lingering on my palate like an unforgotten delight. How badly I wanted to feel it again, to savor it.

On a sharp exhale, I forced myself to focus on the task, to banish the visuals of that kiss which had clearly troubled him for reasons I still puzzled.

Focus.

I filled the sachet with the herbs, then strung it with twine from the canopy of my bed.

A knock at the door jerked my muscles that were still jittery and warm. The door cracked open, and Rykaia peered in, before crossing the room and taking a seat on the other end of the settee, her confused gaze sweeping over my mess.

“What is this?”

“We call them weavers back at home. The combination of herbs and spices induce sleep and ward off nightmares.”

She twisted toward my bed, where a half-dozen already hung. “Can I make one?”

I nodded and handed her a sachet, along with the bowl of herbs.

“What is that bowl?” she asked, pointing to the asphodels.

“That one is for the dead.”

“You see the dead here? In this castle?” She eyed me, as I weaved the dried flowers through the fabric and carefully poked a stem of baby’s breath through hers.

“I haven’t until last night. It’s strange, I was seeing them frequently back in Mortasia.” I kept on with my weaving, doing my best to mentally ward off the image of the ghostly woman that’d plagued my mind the night before, until I’d finally fallen asleep.

“Do you burn your dead?”

“No. Not unless they’re diseased, or believed to harbor demons.”

She snorted. “Harbor demons? Malevol inside a mortal body? I can’t think of anything worse. Mortals are essentially powerless, you being the exception, and you don’t live long.”

“I suppose, when you put it that way, it is silly that they’d choose to inhabit us.”

Quiet lingered between us, before she paused her weaving, the lack of movement dragging my attention to her. “But you saw one last night. In this room.”

“Yes. A woman.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip. “What did she look like?”

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