“That’s not like you,” Mads remarks, the disapproval in his voice apparent. “What’s gotten into you, Shae?”
Mads never uses my real name unless he’s upset. Disappointment turns into a hot fire in my chest.
“I don’t know, Maddox.” I yank my hand from his and climb off the boulder. “I only wanted to find some answers for myself.”
“What answers? There’s nothing wrong with you. You only fear the Blot because you lost Kieran. But the plague hasn’t been here since. It’s been years. You’re fine.” Mads looks down at me, pity in his eyes. “Why not trust what you already know?”
“Because I don’t know anything,” I reply hotly.
“Your life is good. You have a home to live in and clothes on your body and food on the table. Your mother loves you,” Mads says, irritatingly calm as he climbs down to stand next to me. He puts his hands on my shoulders. His warm palms are the only thing that keep me from crumpling to the ground. “I love you. Isn’t that enough?”
Shock smothers my anger and frustration. “You love me?”
His smile answers my question.
But all I can do is stand with my fists balled tightly at my sides. He doesn’t understand the grief of losing someone to the Blot, of having a single event taint your entire family. Or the fear and uncertainty of knowing that there is something deeply wrong with you, and not being able to talk to anyone. He doesn’t know what it’s like to live with someone who is so broken by sadness that she won’t even speak. That is my reality, and he can’t imagine why I would want to do something to fix it.
He loves me.
But he doesn’t know me.
Mads must see the hesitation in my eyes, because he takes a sudden step away, fixing his gaze on everything but me. “It’s late, and we both need some rest. Let me walk you home.”
“I don’t want to go home, Mads.” It comes out sadly, a poor substitute for I love you too. A tear falls down my cheek and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “I can’t stand the thought of it right now.”
“You can’t stay out here alone all night.”
“You could stay with me?” I look up at him, hopefully. He is probably the only person I can stand to have around at the moment.
The tips of Mads’s ears turn red and he lets out an awkward, shy laugh. “I can’t,” he says, his voice rough. “I need to get home. Important work tomorrow.”
A sigh escapes me. I try not to feel choked with hurt. “Do what you have to. I’m going to stay here a bit longer.” His eyebrows rise in concern. “I promise, I’ll head home soon.”
“Be safe, Freckles.” He presses a soft kiss on my forehead before turning and heading down the hill into the valley. I watch until I lose sight of him in the darkness.
5
I can’t sit still anymore, but I can’t go home either. My exhaustion is bone deep. But I’m too afraid of what will come when I sleep.
Instead, I walk up the slope in the opposite direction of Mads. With every step, the rational part of me says to run back to Mads and give him the response he wants. But something stronger pulls me forward—the night sky, the darkness burned with a message in the shape of stars that I can’t decipher.
I’m not sure how long I walk for. The moon is high overhead as I enter a small clearing, deeper in the woods than I intended to venture. My feet ache from the uphill climb and I half-collapse onto a rare patch of moss. My hand reaches into my pocket, fingers running over the furious needlework. The feel of the thread where I stitched the little yellow tulip petals exploding into suns calms me.
I stare at the sky above, willing it to be a mirror, or even a door into the future that Mads described. But as my eyes flutter open and shut, all I can distinguish is a sea of black, the answers sparkling in its depths slowly burned away by fire on the horizon.
* * *
My sleep is deep and dreamless, heavy as a cloak thrown over me. When I open my eyes, it’s to squint at the early morning sunlight that’s peeking through the gnarled, empty branches of trees overhead. I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until I feel the crick in my neck when I try to lift my head.
I should head home before Ma thinks I’ve run off, I think, brushing a few leaves from my skirt. I only hope she hasn’t awoken yet, or noticed I’m missing. If I hurry, I might even have time for a quick breakfast before I have to let the sheep out to pasture.
I turn toward home when a flash of color catches my eye. A patch of yellow tulips, sprouted determinedly from the arid ground. My heart is loud in my ears as I pull my needlework from my pocket. The pattern is the same, down to the detail. One of the flowers is even ill-formed, petals bursting outward from the stem as though exploding.
My jaw trembles, and I shiver. My gut feels like it’s been shackled in cold irons.
Needing to be certain—and desperately hoping I’m wrong—I pull the fabric from the embroidery hoop and grip it with my hands. I tear it over and over, until the shreds fall from my desperate, shaking fingers.
In front of me, the flowers droop, then wither, crumbling into dust, until all that’s left of the bright yellow petals is my memory of them.
Then, a cry echoes across the valley—an animal scream, familiar though I can’t place it. A wolf?
The sound fades, but it leaves me uneasy. I break away from what I’ve done, my paces turning into a run down the uneven path that leads home. My shoes slip several times in my haste downhill. I hurry over loose rock, falling and skidding through the dirt. My dress and arms are filthy, down to my blackened fingernails. Hastily, I scramble up and keep running with more care. The ground is broken beneath my feet, instead of solid, as if recently turned over, and I recall the passing spell of rain brought on by the Bards. Could it have caused the slope to erode?
Urgently, I press forward, passing the boulder and heading through the valley and up to the road. Something feels wrong. I need to get home. To Ma.
I skid to a halt as the house comes into view, my heart and breath pounding discordantly in my chest.
The door is ajar, a smear of something dark, like ink, in the dust of the entryway.
The front door sways slowly on its hinges.
Each step toward the house feels slower, heavier, until I’m standing in front of the door and peering into the darkness within. I swallow hard before pushing it open farther.
“Ma?” I call out, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. I know she won’t answer, but I still expect to see her over the stove fixing breakfast. Instead, I’m knocked back by a potent, unfamiliar scent. My hand instinctively covers my nose and mouth as I step through the doorway.
I barely recognize my home.
The furniture that hasn’t been smashed is overturned. Pots and broken plates litter the floor. Yarn and wool. Pieces of Ma’s loom and spinning wheel. Almost everything I see is spattered in dark red.
Not ink. Blood.
I stand amidst the wreckage, too shocked to move. When I finally break free, my legs shake beneath me. I only manage a couple of steps farther into the house before I see her.
For a few moments I expect to awaken, either back in the wooded grove or in my bed.