Page 88 of Where Shadows Bloom

“It—it didn’t work anyhow,” I said, my voice soft, almost apologetic. “The king of Shadows said that Father—Léo—did not love me.”

My voice broke on the last word. I couldn’t understand it. How could I still long for his approval, his love, when I knew now what a monster he was? He was nothing more than a painted mask of a kind man, a father. But a father nonetheless. The only one I’d ever had. Someone whoshouldhave loved me.

Mother’s hand around mine helped ground me.

“He won’t stop,” I murmured. “He’ll send more and more people down here and let out more and more Shadows, and it will go on forever, because no one can stop him. No onewillstop him. Everyone believes he’s blessed by the gods.”

“Easier to say the gods blessed him than to admit the ugly truth. Making a bargain with the king of the Underworld.” Sagesse folded her arms tight and dug the toe of her shoe into the gray dirt. “The bastard didn’t even pay me.”

“Are we the only people here?” I asked.

“I’m afraid so, my dear,” said Philippe.

I looked to each of them, their gray faces, their weary eyes, the utter, painful quiet of this place. Gone were the brilliant reds and violets and greens of the king’s garden. Gone was the beautiful rosy pink of Lope’s lips. There was no birdsong, no music, no dancing. It was as still as death, here below. Drained of life as it was drained of color.

I looked to the horizon, this world that was now my home forever. Beyond the dark, grassy hills around us, a tall castle stood like a beam of silver light atop a cliffside. Its edges were straight, and every tower was topped with spikes, as if the entire building were made of arrows.

“Is that where he lives?” I asked. “The king of Shadows?”

“Yes,” said Sagesse. “Sometimes he summons us there. He asks us to tell him stories.”

My eyebrows pressed together. “Stories?”

Mother nodded. “We don’t know why. But he wants to hear about the world above. Everything, down to the smallest detail. We have to sit there, trembling in his presence, retelling our lives.... I think he enjoys seeing us cower before him.”

I thought of the two kings I’d met—one beautiful and cruel and the other frightening and odd and... childlike.

If the Shadow King liked stories, I could weave them with ease. Stories were like heartbeats, reliable and steady. I knew the shape of a good fairy tale so well, it was like following a well-trodden path back home.

Perhaps with my stories, with all the bravery I could muster, I could soften whatever stony heart lay inside him. If he made a bargain with my father, surely he would listen to me when I petitioned him for our freedom.

I began to walk across the stone-paved garden, onward toward the palace, white as moonlight.

“Ofelia!” Mother called, chasing after my heels.

“I want to speak to him,” I said, my stride unbroken.

“He’s—he’s wicked, Ofelia. He created the Shadows. He’s nothuman, you can’t just—”

“I can’t give up,” I said to her, pausing to throw her a glare—but tears had sprung into my eyes. “Maybe it’s hopeless, maybe I’m helpless, but I will claw my way out of this place if I must. For all of us. I have to be brave; I have to be brave for...”

I couldn’t say her name. Her smiles, so rare and so satisfying when they were won. Her hand so firm around mine. Her gentle, patient spirit. The way her fearless demeanor would melt away to a sweet blush when I gave her a compliment. The wrinkle in her forehead when she concentrated. Her faithfulness, no matter how stubborn I was. That beautiful, endless faithfulness.

With trembling hands, I swept the few tears from my cheeks and walked on. Behind me, Mother’s footsteps clicked and crunched against the stone path.

“You don’t need to come,” I murmured.

“I want to,” she said.

After a few steps in silence, I let my right hand drop to my side, my fingers apart, inviting.

She held my hand, just like on our morning strolls. Instead of forests and meadows around us, there were dark plains as far as the eye could see. The cold air rustled the plants andmade our skirts sway, but her palm was so warm against mine. The callus from forever holding her paintbrush was still there.

The king had banished us below.

He had dragged us into his story. But our tale would not end here.

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