Page 87 of The Shadow Bride

At his gentle command, my eyes skim around us, trying and failing to see anything but snow—and the yew tree, the corpse below it, which I do not ever want to see again. My breath hitchesin response. The air freezes in my throat. “I can’t—Michal, I can’t do this—”

“Yes, you can.”

Still positioned behind me, he takes my hands, guiding me backward one step at a time until the temperature increases and the snow ceases to fall, replaced by the thick and pungent smoke of damp wood. We turn away from the latter, however; instead we face a hollow in the distance where the ferns grow thinner and ice does not cover the landscape. Patches of heather ripple between the rocks and trees instead.Dames Rouges often use sprigs of heather in protective enchantments. They allegedly bring luck.

They’re the same blooms that grew around his heart.

I blink away the memory, realizing Michal is waiting for me to speak. “I see... flowers,” I say at last, glancing back at him as warmth blooms in my cheeks. I feel sheepish. Graceless. Michal inclines his head, however, now with a hint of challenge. Still waiting.

When I say nothing else, a small smile tugs at his lips. “Not as descriptive as I would’ve hoped. Try again.”

I sigh heavily. “I seepurpleflowers—”

“What color purple?”

“Michal—”

“Whatcolor?”

“Mauve.” That heat of embarrassment seeps into exasperation, and his grin widens triumphantly. “The blooms are mauve, cerise,magenta, and with the wind blowing across them like that, they look like waves.”

And they do. Theydolook like waves, which of course remind me of the maelstrom, of my sister, of the revenants all over again. Just as my throat starts to constrict, however, I force my gaze backto Michal; I force myself to still, to calm, to stay present in this moment. I cannot control the future. I do not know what will happen, but here—now—I am standing with Michal in a beautiful place. With him, I am safe.

More than that, I am supported, and I turn in his arms as gratitude washes over me. “It’s lovely,” I tell him truthfully.

He presses a kiss to my forehead.

“It’s where I first stepped foot on Requiem. The sea lies just beyond it”—he lifts his chin toward the horizon—“and my homeland much farther beyond that. I sought an escape,” he says in answer to the question on my tongue. “A fresh start. Before she married my father, my mother worshipped the land much like witches do, and she taught me a little of what she knew—enough that I recognized those flowers as a sign of hope for my sister and cousins.”

“But not for you?” Hungry for more information about his past, I tip my face to look up at him, to see him as he might’ve been in that faraway place, as a child clutching his mother’s skirt and learning the language of flowers. I cannot picture such softness on him now, however. I cannot imagine Michal as anyone other than who he is: pale and enigmatic, a fortress unto himself.

He doesn’t answer my question right away, still staring out at the field of heather as if seeing a different time, a different place. A different island. Indeed, he waits so long that I fear he might not answer at all. A wave of exhaustion sweeps through me at that, and with it, the last of the tightness leaves my chest unexpectedly. Somehow, I feel both brittle and incredibly heavy in its wake, as if a single frond might break me, or perhaps I’ve already grown roots in this dark and dismal place.

And I cannot help but wonder if it was ever the darkness I feared at all.

Michal’s arms tighten around me before falling away. His voice softens with regret. “I never meant for us to turn out this way.”

“Who?” I hesitate before turning fully, equal parts determined and frightened to hear his answer. It feels harder to look at him now than it did before—and not because I asked him to touch me. Not because I killed to protect him either.No.My chest aches at the sight of him because no one has ever followed me into the spirit realm before. No one has ever followed me into nightmares.

Distantly, I recognize he’ll soon lose that ability. When my blood leaves his system, he’ll never set foot there again.

As if sensing my uncertainty, he sweeps his thumb across my cheek with a wry smile. “So many questions.” He leans down. For a split second, it looks like he might brush a kiss against my lips, but he pulls away just as quickly, leaving me strangely forlorn. “You look exhausted, pet. You should sleep for a while.” With a heavy sigh, he adds, “It’ll take several hours for the revenant to burn.”

I recline within the roots of another tree—a different tree, this one across the clearing—and rest against its silver trunk, trying and failing to close my eyes with Michal standing beside me. Hands in his pockets, surcoat discarded, he leans against the tree and surveys the revenant’s makeshift pyre. The yew tree hides much of the smoke, but a thin plume of it still escapes the naked branches to the sky overhead.

Someone could see it. Someone could come.

He doesn’t seem concerned, however, his black eyes cutting tomine after several silent moments. They narrow slightly. “That doesn’t look like sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Right.” He nods shortly. “And I can eat chocolate éclairs—just had one for breakfast, in fact.”

Sighing at his cheek, I tip my head back, heedless of the ice on the bark. There will be no salvaging my hair, nor my gown. Even if Michal hadn’t torn off an entire sleeve, all manner of gore stains the violet satin now. I try not to look at it.

“Was your mother a witch?” I ask after another moment.

He shakes his head with a mirthless laugh. “Oh, no. No, we aren’t opening that door.”

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