“We will help Father clear the table,” Lyra offered, pulling Theron toward the kitchen.
Mother led me by the arm into the deserted lounge, where the dying light of the setting sun cast long, accusatory shadows across the floor. She sat me down on the plush velvet sofa, her gaze piercing and unwavering.
“Kaelia,” she began. “You were not yourself tonight. You were a ghost at your own table. Tell me what is wrong. And do not tell me it is merely the excitement.”
I felt the heat rise to my face, the lie going brittle at the edges.
“Mother,” I said, and my voice trembled. I decided to let a small truth slip instead of the whole, terrifying reality. “It has been a whirlwind. Since staying at the Archives… I have not slept. I feel unwell. Maybe even feverish.”
I pressed my fingers to my forehead in a clumsy mimicry of illness.
Her hand came to my cheek instantly. She frowned, her expression softening into worry.
“You do feel warm,” she murmured. “Why did you not tell us? You should not have been playing hostess if you were ill.”
“I just wanted tonight to be perfect for Hera,” I added, knowing it was another layer of the lie. “I did not want to ruin it.”
“Nonsense. Your health comes first. You have been working too hard in the Archives, and now all this. It is too much stress for one soul.” She pulled me gently to my feet. “Come. I will start a bath for you. Lavender and chamomile to draw out the chill.”
I allowed her to lead me into the hallway.
The ornate gown I had worn for dinner felt heavy and suffocating and I was desperate to shed it. I unwound the silk ribbons and unclasped the fastenings, letting the rich fabric slide to the floor in a shimmering puddle around my bare feet.
A deep sigh escaped me.
Mother called from the washroom, the sound of running water echoing. “It is ready, Kaelia! The water is warm.”
I padded into the washroom, the steam creating a hazy, silver warmth in the air. I sank into the tub and felt some of the weight loosen. The exhaustion I had pretended to feel suddenly became very real, pressing heavily into every joint.
I closed my eyes and allowed the water to cradle me.
My eyelids began to burn with unshed tears, but I refused to let them fall.
I had chosen this path. I had chosen survival.
And I had to see it through.
I rolled my head back against the edge of the tub and sighed.
Within moments, the heat and the bone-deep exhaustion of a soul at war with itself won. I succumbed to a dark slumber, lulled by the scent of lavender and the sound of the water.
18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
My eyes fluttered open, not to the dim, steam-fogged ceiling of my bath chamber, but to a kaleidoscope of impossible, shimmering hues.
The Garden of Thrynn stretched before me, yet it was not the manicured sanctuary I knew. The trees towered until they pierced the heavens, their trunks veined with liquid emerald light. Stardust floated thick in the air, cooling my skin like a thousand tiny diamonds.
A breath of pure wonder escaped me.
My hand reached out, catching the falling motes. They settled on my skin, cool and vibrant, leaving behind a faint, sweet hum.
My gaze drifted beyond the nearest cluster of glowing flora, drawn to a rise in the landscape where an enormous canopy tree stood. It was the same tree where Hera and I had stood meredays ago, but the figure beneath its sweeping boughs was not her.
Talon stood there, his black shirt stretched tight over a chest of forged steel. His bare forearms were marked with runes that writhed in time with the living dream.
“Talon?”