It was embarrassing to even speak the words. Her clothing was all handed down, and she had no worldly possessions that were really hers. The lack reminded her of how ephemeral she truly was at all times.
She turned and looked around the garden in an attempt to compose herself. He probably meant to keep her busy and out of his hair, but with this one gift, he was also saying that he expected her to have time to grow something. Relief coursed through her as she turned back to Conor. He looked expectant, or maybe even afraid he’d done something wrong.
“I’ve never really owned anything before, at least not anything like this,” she whispered. It was thoughtful not just because she loved to garden, but because it gave her a space in which she belonged.
Conor’s face lit with recognition, and he gave her a sharp nod. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead, he turned and marched toward the gate.
“Conor,” she called after him, and he paused. “Thank you.”
He said nothing else as he disappeared through the gates.
Rowan looked around the garden. She saw its boundless potential. It just needed some love—something it had likely been sorely missing in Conor’s broody presence. She laughed to herself as she began to yank at weeds, the dry barbs threatening to cut into her hands.
Can’t make that mistake again, she thought, then said aloud, “Gloves first.”
Instead of getting to work, she lay on the dry grass and looked up at the beautiful blue sky, dreaming up a garden of her own.
She stayed there for a long time. In the back of her mind, she knew that Conor’s kind gift might have just been a clever way to keep her out of his business. The garden was just about as far as she could get from his sitting room while still remaining in Wolf’s Keep. She didn’t let it steal her joy, though, because—even if there was more than one reason to give her such a gift—she finally had something of her own.
Rowan paddedthrough the western wing of Wolf’s Keep. She’d explored most of the rooms downstairs, but now she moved from guest room to guest room, wondering why the god of death required so many bedrooms.
Several rooms were occupied by the ghostly servants who worked for the Wolf, but most were empty—ghosts themselves—and covered in a heavy film of dust with furniture sheltered under white sheets.
Finally, Rowan reached the last room at the end of the hall. She cracked the door open and froze. The room was unlike most of the others in that it had been lived in recently. A familiar shawl was slung over the back of the plush chair by the empty fireplace. She stumbled back to the doorway.
“It was Orla’s room.”
Rowan startled, her heart jumping into her throat at Charlie’s voice.
“Were you following me?” she accused, turning to face him.
Charlie shrugged. “Conor’s out, and he asked me to keep an eye on you and figure out what you’re up to.”
“Snooping,” she said with her most charming smile.
Charlie laughed. “Grand! Will you continue now that you’ve been found out?”
Rowan looked back at the room. He was offering her free rein of the space, but she felt suddenly guilty now that she knew whose space it was—or had been. For some reason, this room felt more sacred than Orla’s at Maiden’s Tower.
Charlie waved her into the room. “You can go in, lass. I doubt she’d mind. She was a very guarded person, but it was clear she cared about you and the little one. She didn’t have many belongings anyway.”
Rowan took in the red velvet curtains on the windows and the dark purple bedspread. Her eyes caught on a canvas in the corner where the sun poured in through the window. She took a tentative step into the room even though she felt like an invader.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Charlie grinned. “Orla liked to paint.”
Rowan blinked, stupefied. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. She painted every week. She spent most of the night here working on her paintings. If I’m not mistaken, she had some works at home, too.”
Rowan stared at the reaper, trying to digest the fact that she hadn’t known her friend as well as she thought. Suddenly Orla’s long naps before ceremony nights made more sense. She was preparing to stay up all night and work. Rowan couldn’t believe her friend had kept such a beautiful secret for so long.
Charlie spoke up. “I can leave if you want.”
“No, don’t.”
Her grief was like lightning that struck with no warning or regard for the devastation it wrought. One moment, Rowan was fine, and the next, she felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her.