Page 74 of Those Fatal Flowers

“Will you fetch me some more water, girl?” Sybil asks Cora, pointing to a wooden bucket beside the door. Though Cora looks reluctant, she slowly untangles herself from my side.

“You weren’t destined to be a mother,” the old woman whispers after the cottage door creaks shut, signaling we’realone. She interprets my silence as resignation, not as shocked detachment. “I suspect fate brought you here for another reason.”

Her words offer a welcome distraction from my confusion and draw my attention back to her. “How do you…?”

“There’s a magic about you. I can’t quite decipher what it is, but I do recognize it. You’re so young, but somehow you seem to have lived a thousand lifetimes.”

I bring his little body to my cheek. “I thought I could have a different life than the one already spun for me.”

“An alluring thought, but this was a cruel reminder—you can’t avoid your fate.” The woman wipes the sweat from my brow, a loving gesture that I lean into. It reminds me of my sisters’ touch. “Rest here as long as you need. The bleeding’s slowed, and your body is healthy. You’re going to be fine.”

When Cora returns, she takes the little boy into her hands, weeping over his lifeless body, distraught by Will’s death all over again. My heart breaks to see her like this, though it’s easier to feel sorry for her than to try to parse my own feelings. I fell in love with a daughter that never existed; instead, my traitorous body was harboring a boy. I want to hate him, for even if he survived, how could I have stopped him from growing into a monster? I’m one myself.

But I can’t. And I also can’t love him. I don’t know how to. I feel nothing except relief that it’s too late for us to return home. The gates will already be locked for the night, and neither Cora nor myself wants to devise an excuse for why we were in the woods long past midnight. Exhaustion overtakes us both, and Cora hands my son’s body to Sybil. The crone wraps him in a tiny piece of fabric, then looks to me for approval. I nod, and Sybil leaves, off to return the child to the earth.

I motion for Cora to join me on the mattress, and she does.We entwine ourselves in each other’s arms. She cries herself to sleep, but Somnus does not grant me peace.

After some time, I look to the crackling fire across the room and find I’m not alone. There, in the chair beside the hearth, sits a figure cloaked in shadow. For the span of a breath, I fear Mercury has come after all, here to guide my soul below. But then, in the half-light of the dying embers, I recognize him. How many times over the past few months did I stare at that face, desperately wishing for it to transform into his sister’s? This time, he’s thankfully intact. No exposed muscle hangs from his cheeks, no vulture tears at his eyes. His stomach hasn’t been torn open to reveal a mess of bowels. The back of the chair fades in and out of sight as he rocks in it, watching the flames. His body isn’t entirely solid; he’s made of air. A spirit.

“Will?” I ask, not sure if he’s simply a trick of my mind. Although I should be terrified, I find that I’m not. My pulse is steady, my breathing calm. When I speak, he turns to look at me, his soft lips turned down in a sorrowful frown. “What are you—”

“I’m sorry about our son, Thelia,” he says, and the sound breaks something in me. I half expected he wouldn’t speak, or when he did, that the sound would only fill my head like Proserpina’s voice. But no, although it’s soft, his voice still drifts across the room like a gentle spring breeze.

“I couldn’t carry him. I’m not destined to be a mother.”

“I know.”

“What else do you know?” I whisper, afraid of the answer.

“Everything.” His green eyes flare when the fire catches them, but there’s no hatred or disgust in his expression. Only a sad understanding.

“Did Thomas—”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“Of course it matters! He—”

“You’ll punish him soon enough, I suspect.”

My throat closes, trapping my voice inside it.

“I’m not here to talk about him. I’m here to talk about our son. About how you feel nothing for him.”

“There’s nothing to feel,” I say, a little too quickly. “The child wasn’t meant to live. Even if he had, wouldn’t it be my responsibility to kill him? My purpose…” My voice cracks.

“Is to punish,” he answers for me, before adding, “the guilty. A child is innocent. So are some men. Wasn’t I?”

Tears well in my eyes. “I believe so, but how can I know for certain? I’ve been fooled before…”

“You don’t need to steel yourself against him.”

“I’m not trying to,” I whisper. “I lost a child, and I don’t feel anything. How is that possible?”

“You’re too afraid to, scared of what it might mean. But it’s all right to love him. Some of us are worth loving.” He smiles mournfully.

“But how can I know who is and who isn’t?”

“Monsters are made, Thelia. Not born.”

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