The path cuts deeper into the woods that encase the far side of the pond. Tall, slim trees close around me, and I breathe deeply, mindfully. Buds are just starting to form on the silver birch that are well spaced apart in this section of the wooded area. It’s newer growth, though old enough that the white, papery bark is peeling on most of the trees. Adeline had the birch planted when she reclaimed the property.
Keeping the pond vaguely to my left, I leave the main path to walk among the trees for a few more minutes until the itchbetween my shoulder blades eases. I note another foot-worn trail— or rather, worn by wolves’ paws — leading back to the pond and a gap in the reeds edging the water. I allow it to pull me back to my purpose.
Crouching, I tug off my backpack and place it on some already flattened reeds in an attempt to keep it out of the mud. The still water is green and not remotely clear. As I watch, delicate rings punctuate the surface in a few places. From fish coming up for air or to eat a bug. Still no swans or ducks, though. Maybe they’re happy in their house. Or Adeline has gotten rid of them.
I pull the marble urn out of my backpack, cradling it to my chest, and just … aching. It’s a strange ache, though. Pervasive, but almost tender. Poignant.
I carefully open the lid of the urn, thankful that Sully’s sealing spell doesn’t disperse under my touch. I pull out a handful of ashes, losing a bunch as I stretch my clasped hand out over the water.
I realize that I’m mourning more than just Armin in coming here. I’m saying goodbye to our shared childhood and the friendship and love that might have been so much more —
I feel him a moment before I realize he’s standing on the far edge of the pond with the house at his back. That unwanted awareness I always have in his vicinity.
Bolan.
He stands with his head cocked to one side, bright-eyed gaze riveted to me and glimmering with the essence of his wolf. One of his hands is shoved in the front pocket of his torn, age-worn black jeans, while the other hangs loose at his side. His black sweater is also worn, fraying at the hem and neckline, and long enough to cover his knuckles.
My chest starts aching in earnest. Something torn and ragged lurks in the depths of that pain. Still crouched with my handfulof ashes clutched in one hand, I press the urn against my rib cage with the other. Grinding the marble between my breasts as if it might shield me.
But the pain only sharpens, jagged and torn. That soul-deep agony has grown so much worse since Armin died. Worse each time I’m near Bolan, as if Armin was a buffer between us. I don’t understand why except … except …
No. I know why.
I know why.
I know that Bolan —
No. I know what Oliver did. All those years ago.
I know.
I’ve just been in denial. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Because it’s so, so much worse than a simple kiss or a childhood crush.
Across the water from me, Bolan stiffens, pressing a hand to his chest and grunting quietly in pain. The sound travels across the still water.
A terrible anger, edged with despair, explodes through me, emanating from my chest and through my limbs. I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking under the onslaught of my own emotions.
I know this is an overreaction, verging on unhinged, but I —
Bolan is suddenly behind me. I don’t open my eyes, but I can feel him, even as I try to regain some control of myself.
“Mirth,” he murmurs.
I don’t answer. The pain writhing in my chest won’t let me speak. Crouched with one hand still extended over the edge of the pond, I clutch the pitiful handful of Armin’s ashes so hard that my nails feel as if they’re cutting into my skin. My entire arm is shaking.
Then Bolan curls around me, his chest to my back. His knees in the mud, legs brushing against mine. He reaches forward, nototherwise touching me, until he curls his fingers under the wrist of my extended hand.
He holds me there, steadies me.
My arm stops shaking.
I manage a ragged breath.
So, so slowly and gently, his other arm comes around me, finding and pressing his hand over my other hand as well, so that we’re both cradling the urn to my chest.
I take another breath, feeling my back expanding against his chest.
He’s warm.
