Page 70 of Those Fatal Flowers

I relive the fantasy of dropping him onto Castle’s spires over and over again, delighting in how his face contorts with horror as he falls through the air, how his body slams into the rocks with a singular sickening crack. But the best part of this daydream is watching the light fade from his eyes as his blood spills down over the stones, a sacrifice for me alone.

The physical toll of growing a child should be another reason to despair. Aurora’s light no longer wakes me in the mornings. That task has fallen to my stomach, which spends the early hours before sunrise trying valiantly to keep down the previous night’s meal. It’s a battle that’s often lost, forcing me into the predawn chill to empty my chamber pot before Margery can discover how frequently it’s filled with vomit. My breasts grow tender to the touch, but despite my body’s increased sensitivity, I revel in this transformation. For millennia, I aged only until a fresh ship brought more sailors. I grew so familiar with the process: how my skin would sag, my hair gray, my feathers thin. But these changes are entirely new, and the fact I never believed they could be mine makes them all the sweeter.

If I’m honest with myself, Cora’s distance is for the best.Ialready struggle to avoid daydreaming of us crossing the channel to the mainland, heading northwest into the wilderness. The tiny part of an impenetrable forest where we would carve out a place for ourselves, where we’d build a tiny cottage beneath the protection of the pines, and where we’d raise this baby together.

These are fantasies I never dared entertain about Proserpina. Didn’t I always know somewhere, deep down, that our love was ephemeral? Something to be enjoyed in our youth before Ceres found her a husband. Isn’t that why my thoughts of her were always immediate? How we’d spend our mornings, our days, our nights. They never wandered to what our futures might hold.

The same barrier doesn’t exist with Cora. She’s all alone, just as I am, and if I could convince her to, what would keep us from escaping together?

That’s the danger of dreaming—it’s the same danger as our song. It tantalizes with a glimpse of the forbidden, assures you it’s possible. And then it offers the details you ache for most: what the first snow looks like in that little cabin, flakes shimmering in the evergreens that envelop us, on Cora’s long, dark lashes, on my sweet child’s little nose. The picture it paints is so clear that I smell the logs burning in the hearth. I hear the combined music of their laughter as Cora bounces the baby on her knee. I feel the warmth of us curled together on a pallet, buried beneath a pile of furs and quilts. I see the first verdant kiss of spring pushing through the frozen forest floor, breaking through the white blanket that seemed so impenetrable only a few months before.

It’s a destiny that doesn’t—thatcan’t—exist.

The promise of such a future would drive anyone into thesea.

An ache in my lower back wakes me from an afternoon nap. I pull myself from the bed with a groan, arms stretching over my head. A gentle knock on the door signals Margery’s outside, and I hobble across the room to push away the chair and open it for her. She smiles weakly at me as she enters, sidestepping my form to place a tray on my bedside table: a cup of weak tea and some salted meat. My stomach sours at the sight; I know I should be grateful, but the settlers have taken to eating rats.

“Thelia!” she gasps, raising a finger to my nightgown. “You’re bleeding!”

My face crumples in confusion at her words.I can’t be,I almost say aloud, catching myself at the very last moment before the words tumble over my lips. I whirl to face the bed. Sure enough, a dark crimson smear stains the white linens. A hand rushes to my belly instinctively, and the room begins to spin. I take a seat in the chair beside the fireplace to prevent myself from collapsing onto the floor.

I fall silent. Each breath is slow, measured, as if breathing too quickly will shake the babe free.Am I losing her?I have no one to ask. I bury my face in a palm, turning to the fire that still burns from this morning to hide my distress from Margery.

Her duties should distract her from analyzing my demeanor, but she makes no move to strip the soiled bedding.

“Stay here. I’ll get help,” she says, and then disappears from the room in a hurry. As soon as the door falls closed behind her, I drop onto the floor, swinging my legs up onto the seat of the chair to press my hips off the ground, womb to the sky, as if I can keep this child inside of me with the samedownward force that makes fruit fall to the earth instead of floating away into the heavens.

Maybe such bleeding is normal,I repeat to myself over and over, trying to calm my racing heart. I think of the men on Scopuli, how the blood poured from their wounds more quickly when they panicked. Does losing a child work the same way? Will my anxiety quicken the process? Despite my best efforts, my breathing grows haggard. The more I try to relax, the more flustered I become.

“Please be all right,” I whisper to my belly. “You’re all I have.”

I stay in that position for what feels like hours, waiting forMargery to return. Who can possibly come to my aid? If she brings Master Sutton, the closest person to a doctor on Roanoke, what will my punishment be? I reach between my legs tenderly only to find my fingertips stained crimson with fresh blood. Whatever bleeding occurred while I slept hasn’t stopped.

“We are almost home, sweet babe. Hold on.” The words are both a promise and a plea.

The sound of frantic footsteps up the stairs makes a cry catch in my throat. I try to push myself back up, but the door bursts open before I can hide that I’m curled up on the ground like a crumpled nightdress. I don’t raise my chin to meet the new arrival just yet—shame and fear bring tears to my eyes. What a damning position to be found in: sprawled across the floor, clutching my belly as red seeps out from between my legs.

I barely have a chance to register it’s her before she’s upon me, green eyes wide with alarm as she rushes to my side to cup my face gently in her hands. When I open my mouth to speak, her beautiful black waves encircle our faces. For amoment, there’s only us. The sight of Cora after all this time is so overwhelming that all I can do is stare up at her, mouth agape. I reach a hand up to touch her cheek, but my muscles seize, and I scream from the shock of it. Margery hovers on the threshold, looking over her shoulder anxiously.

“Shhh…” Cora murmurs, brushing my hair behind my ears and out of my face. The tendrils are slick with sweat. “We need to take you to Sybil. She’ll know what to do.”

“All right,” I say, the words more sobbed than spoken.

“You must go quickly,” Margery interrupts. “If Master Thomas finds out about any of this, he’ll kill the child himself.”

17

Before

We hold rituals in the sea cave on Scopuli’s southwestern shore. It’s accessible only when the tide is low, neither above the earth nor below it, neither a part of nor separate from the ocean, a sacred place between the worlds. The grotto’s opening is oblong and curves up in the corners. Jagged rock formations stand guard along the ground, giving the aperture the appearance of a crooked sneer. Outside, the sun straddles the horizon, half in the sky, half below. Its last light spilling onto the waves, staining the sea red as blood. Soon Jaquob’s will flow to meet it.

The sight makes me shiver, so I turn to Raidne. She’s kneeling before a ring of stones we placed in the middle of the space centuries ago, striking two rocks together over the wood that sits within its sphere. A spark emerges and catches the kindling ablaze. Warm light bursts across the cave walls, giving life to all nature of shadows. Only once the bonfire roars does Raidne meet my gaze. Her eyes are sympathetic, though I don’t need them to be. I know what must be done. This is why Jaquob is here; he was always meant to be a giftto her. They all were—it’s their punishment. Otherwise,Proserpina would never have sent them here. My skin crawls with anticipation, and each sense is heightened by the knowledge that for the first time since these offerings began, this will work.

Yes,she’d said.He’s mine.

So I’ll give him to her. A long overdue gift, more potent than those flowers I failed to gather for her.

The sound of footsteps draws my attention to the mouth of the cave. Pisinoe approaches on the exposed, rocky beach. Jaquob follows. One look at his slack-jawed grin and glassy eyes confirms that she sang to him, bewitched him into submission to follow her here willingly, like a dog follows a bone. He stumbles over the rocks beneath his feet, but Pisinoe waits patiently for him to catch himself each time he loses his balance.

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