Page 76 of Song of the Dark Wood

Rowan tipped her chin up, holding her hands out to catch the glitter as it rained down over her. The luminary moved to the next flowers, and she followed. Conor trailed wordlessly behind her as she stepped in front of a pearlescent white flower that bloomed the same way. Rowan twirled in the falling pollen, for once not caring that it might stain her dress.

More luminaries floated up from the ground in tiny, golden glowing orbs. She could almost make out minute bodies in the center of the glow, but they were too bright to look at for long. Seeing them scattered throughout the greenhouse reminded her of fireflies she, Sarai, and Finn used to spend breathless summer evenings chasing around in Ashand Orchards.

The luminaries bounced from flower to flower, and Rowan followed. The air filled with sporadic puffs of pollen, the entire greenhouse abuzz with magic and joy, and Rowan relished the thrill of it.

She jumped and spun, her hands in the air as she laughed. She almost forgot Conor was there until he caught her hand and drew her toward him.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked.

“Now?” Rowan laughed. “There’s no music.”

“I thought perhaps you could sing something.”

“I thought you didn’t like when I sang here. You said it attracts the spirits.”

“I was wrong,” he said as he drew her closer.

Rowan stared at him wide-eyed. “Are you feeling well?” she asked, pretending to feel his forehead for fever. “Can gods catch a cold?”

Conor laughed. “I have been wrong on very rare occasions.”

“Let’s mark down this one and hold a feast each year to commemorate this rarity, though one wonders if it’s rare that you make mistakes, or simply rare that you admit to them.”

He grinned as he pulled her flush to his body, one hand resting on her lower back and the other cupping her right hand. His proximity sent her heartbeat racing.

“What should I sing?”

“Do you have a favorite song?” he asked.

Rowan nodded.

“Sing that.”

She couldn’t bear to have his full attention on her at such close proximity while she sang. Instead of meeting his eyes, she leaned her head against his shoulder and started to sing a song about a witch who was forced to erase herself from the mind of the man she loved.

As she became more confident in the song, the entire garden erupted in a tempest of buzzing, pulsing energy, a symphony of rebirth. All the flowers started kicking up pollen in a frenzy, and the glitter floated around them in a stunning array of colors and patterns. It was too much—the beauty of the garden, the freedom to sing when she wanted, the way the plants reacted to her song, and the warmth of Conor’s body against her. She’d never felt so at peace.

“Why do you like that song so much?” Conor asked.

Rowan sighed. “I like it because the woman in the song is brokenhearted as she steals the memory of herself from her love. He’s so certain he couldn’t possibly forget her. When he doesn’t remember, she’s crushed. But then he starts to notice that the absence of her left its own mark. He feels it even if he can’t name it. He senses the lack of her. There’s something beautiful about that.”

She choked on the swell of confusion and peace that erupted from her chest. It took her a moment to realize that she felt safe. So much of her life had been spent in fear of saying or doing the wrong thing, of having something taken from her. It was strange to suddenly feel so entirely comforted and secure. She didn’t even realize she was crying until she choked on a note and her vision went blurry.

“Rowan, what’s wrong?” Conor asked.

“Nothing—I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life,” she mumbled.

“Neither have I,” he said, his intense blue-gray eyes fixed on her. He brushed tears from her cheeks and grinned. “You’re so sparkly.”

A giggle bubbled out of her as she brushed some pollen from his cheek. “So are you. I think it suits you.”

“Does it?”

“Yes, I think it’s a perfect look for you,” she laughed.

Conor kissed her. The temperature in the room spiked, and Rowan’s hand fisted in his tunic as she drew him closer. Conor cupped her face, tilting her chin so he could take the kiss deeper.

Rowan’s fingers dug into his tunic frantically. She couldn’t touch enough of him, couldn’t get close enough. He tasted like whiskey and warm apple cider—sweet and bitter with the slightest hint of spice. She wanted to lose herself in it.

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