Page 57 of Prince of Flowers
“That I am. And of all the things that come with it, besides. Heartbreak is one of them. But chin up. You’re a summoner, are you not? Prince or no prince, he is your eidolon. When you need him, call. He shall answer. It’s as simple as that.”
“You can’t know that. How can you possibly know that?” I sighed. “With all due respect, Aphrodite, I’d rather not talk about — well, about anything right now.”
She sighed, too. “Ah. Another time then. Until we meet again, sapling, starling, little darling. Fare well. And I do mean that.”
The wind shifted, carrying the echo of her voice far from the Wispwood. And from outside came a gust that brought only cold, as the night intended. I chuckled bitterly. The cold that I deserved.
Call him. If I reached out through the ether, summoned him in the ways prescribed by our ancient art, would Sylvain answer? Would he respond as an eidolon, or as the man who sneered at me in the clearing, who bathed me in the pool, who protected me from death with his power?
I clenched my teeth in anger, hating how I felt, hating more how it made the first of my tears fall on the windowsill. Call, Aphrodite said, and he would answer.
But what if he didn’t?
22
Morning.I opened my eyes, hoping for a weight on the mattress beside me, arms around my waist, the light snore of a man slightly taller than myself, yet big enough to envelope me. But nothing.
I sat up, rubbed my eyes, my hair, feeling like an idiot all over again. Of course he wasn’t coming back. Why would he? He got what he wanted. If the water of the Wispwell really could cure the Withering, then that was it. Problem solved.
A net positive for the world, or at least for the Verdance. And hey, presto — we could draw water from the Wispwell ourselves, bring it into the Oriel of Earth, reverse the effect of the Withering. No more desiccation and death, on this side of the Verdance or anywhere else.
Yet I felt so empty. Stupid. Selfish. I wanted him to come back, never mind the lies, the betrayal. I wanted him standing in front of me so we could talk, and fight, and fuck, and talk again.
Had Sylvain really done anything truly unforgivable? He only wanted to save his people, and he was right, anyway. My first reaction to learning that he was from the Autumn Court was to freak out. I cringed as I remembered the singing of my blade when I drew the dagger, held it to his neck. He was right to lie.
“Gods above and below,” I muttered. “Locke. You idiot.”
I trundled over to the breakfast table. My stomach was rumbling, but I was in no mood to eat. Fuck it. I plucked some clean clothes out of the dresser, dragged my walking corpse to the bathroom. I went through the motions in the shower, because if I was going to be the heartbroken fool aimlessly pacing the courtyard, I should at least have the decency to be freshly bathed.
Finally I could live out my fantasy of haunting my own wing of the academy, candelabra in hand, drifting through the corridors as a fragrant, soap-scented ghost. I chuckled at the thought, my first laugh of the morning. A small win, at least.
With my eyes shut, I groped for the phial of liquid soap I always used, risking broken glass in the stall like I did every day of my life, tempting fate by stubbornly refusing to use something else to wash myself. Listen, Bruna could do no wrong with her formulations. I would drink that liquid soap if I could.
But it was missing. I opened my eyes, wondering if I’d knocked it over. Maybe Sylvain had poured it all down the drain, washed out the phial to use it to collect his precious Wispwell water. I got angry at the thought of it, then got angry at myself for resenting his concern for his people. Fuck. I was the asshole, wasn’t I? I reached for the bar of soap I hadn’t used in ages instead, so old that it had crusted over and fused to the porcelain.
Half an hour or so later I’d fulfilled my own prophecy, hovering aimlessly in the courtyard by the Wispwell. I’d brought my backpack with me, too. And what exactly was I going to do? Access the sentinels, leave the academy, go tearing through the forest outside in search of the man who’d fucked me senseless?
So senseless, in fact, that I actually was considering going after him. I scoffed under my breath and shook my head. Maybe this was all Sylvain’s fault after all, literally fucking my brains out with that perfect cock, holding me in his sway with that perfect body, that perfect face.
We had a good time, and that was that. The things he’d said about wanting to see me again, about coming back? He was a charmer, so seductive that I deserved to be forgiven for being smitten, for falling for his tricks. Those were only sweet words to lull me.
Maybe he didn’t think I’d wake up when I did. It was just as likely that none of this mattered. What I needed to do was turn my ass around, head back up those stairs, and crawl back into bed. Draw the curtains, clock a couple more hours of sleep. After that I could track Namirah and Bruna down and have a good, solid cry.
So I turned around, intent on going up to my room. But Evander Skink stood in my way, summoned by my misery, his arrival so sly and unexpected. Unwanted, too, like a clump of weeds. Or a wart. He blocked my path to the stairs with his body and his punchable face.
“I’m not in the mood right now, Skink.”
“Oh, you do wound me, Locke. Shouldn’t we be on a first-name basis by now? It’s Evan. Your friend, Evan Skink.”
“Right, then. Okay.” I rolled my eyes, hungry, tired, angry. “What the fuck do you want, Evan?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure I like your tone, Locke. You look like shit yourself. Rough night?”
“Just get the hell out of my way, Skink.”
I tried to shove past him, but he placed his hand on my shoulder. I rounded on him, ready to deck him in the face, when I noticed something there I’d never seen before. What the — was that sympathy? A glimmer of humanity fighting its way out of the shriveled lump that was Evander Skink’s heart?
“Listen. I know I’ve given you plenty of grief over our time here together. I guess it’s not totally your fault that you’re such a mess.”
