Page 62 of What Is Dark Within Me

“We’ll find her. I promise,” he said.

“And you’ll be free of me,” she replied.

“That’s not the reason. Even in this life, you must know that.”

She unraveled their fingers and pushed her chair back. She wanted to see her grandmother. She wanted to beg Bonnie for a bowl of chicken soup. She wanted to find Garm, who she could rely on for a hug that left black fur all over her clothes.

But what frightened her was realizing she also wanted Nicolas’s company. In fact, she preferred it.

“Fine,” she said. “But we spend no more time here than the equivalent of two days in the human world. I’m going to go see my grandmother.”

“I never got the chance to say it before, but welcome home. I know this won’t mean anything, but the painting of Persephone with the pomegranate—I had it commissioned for you. It was supposed to be a gift upon your return. I suppose now is as good a time to tell you as any.”

She took in his sharp cheekbones, the gray streak of hair by his left temple, and his hands with their dark fingernails, splayed across the table as if he had no idea what to do with them now that she had pulled away.

“I—I don’t know what to say to that,” she admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything. When the bond is broken, it's yours to take with you.”

“Thank you, Nicolas,” she said, forcing herself to take the last few steps out of the room.

Of course, the damned painting was waiting for her in the hall.

She looked again at Persephone in her white dress, stained with red pomegranate juice. Behind her, the kingdom of the dead—a macabre beauty with black architecture. It was darker than Botticelli’s usual work, but with a figure as graceful and delicate as all the angels immortalized on his canvasses.

As she headed for the spiral staircase that led her to grandmother’s dreamworld, Aleja wondered if she saw herself in Persephone—half her freedom stolen by a foolish choice of snack. Or maybe that wasn’t right. Maybe she wasn’t Persephone at all, but another tragic heroine from Greek myths: Eurydice, who never had her chance to escape the underworld.

* * *

Aleja lookedout the window of her room and realized it was sunset, though she had only woken an hour before. Last night, an almost perfect red sphere had hung over the mountains, making the night-blooming jasmine climbing along the palace walls pink by its light.

Her dreams had been filled by fire and Nicolas. Sometimes, they were dressed in black armor, carrying twin swords. Sometimes, she had her head in his lap, his hands tangled in her hair—longer than she wore it now and wavy from her braids. And too often, they were dreams about crawling into his lap and sinking onto him as he watched her with worship in his eyes.

Charred leaves still peppered the rose garden as Aleja made the trip down to the cabin near the vegetable patch, and a woman with pruning shears ducked behind a trellis to avoid her. Bonnie was preparing roasted asparagus with lemon sauce, mashed potatoes topped with golden butter and crispy bacon, and soft-boiled quail eggs that exploded with flavor in Aleja’s mouth.

“The gardeners hate me,” Aleja said, wiping yolk off her lips.

Shall we try to guess why? said the voice.

“They’ll warm up to you. Most were in a dark place before arriving here. They’re not old enough to remember you, and still get nervous around newcomers,” Bonnie said.

“Who were they?” Aleja asked.

“Many were the victims of someone else’s bargain, like your grandmother. Others… well, Nicolas likes to pick up strays, even if they don’t intend to become Dark Saints.”

“You were human before?” Aleja asked.

Bonnie tore a piece of bread apart with her fingers and looked at her sandals. “Of all the current Dark Saints, I’ve been here the longest, but yes, I was a human named Bennu once. Born in a city called Alexandria that still exists when so many other things have fallen away. My employer was a mathematician named Hypatia. I think she was a bit appalled because I mostly applied the private lessons she gave me toward baking.”

“Alexandria,” Aleja breathed. “That must have been incredible.”

“You humans always romanticize the past,” Bonnie chided. “There were wonders and suffering in equal measure. And I was a half-Egyptian, half-Greek orphan employed alongside my brother by a wealthy family. I saw both sides of it in spades.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for the past. I’m glad to be a Dark Saint. I just wish I could travel again. Hearing your devotees call to you when you can’t go to them is heartbreaking.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Aleja asked, knowing the answer.

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