The corsage of eucalyptus, stephanotis, and peony is hers. It’s her good luck charm, and she needs it. And she’s to blame for letting him have his way, which is unacceptable. And because it’s unacceptable, the chair skids back as Wonder rises. He’s far out of range, lost in his own task.
She’ll be quick.
Hiking the tower to his room, she glances for the hundredth time over her shoulder and slips through the door. It smells of Malice—of old pages. But inconveniently, the space lacks the fragrance of a pomegranate. That’s not encouraging, since the posy is presumably subsisting with one.
Also, he’s a tidy soul. The bed is made, the space swept clear of clutter, except for his saddlebag and archery.
Wonder hunts the vicinity, rifling through the wardrobe and bookcase. The cabinets and drawers yield nothing of consequence, just extra leaflets and castoff books. Because he doesn’t scribe notations, there’s nothing to memorize, no hint of his private intentions.
There isn’t a sign of the blooms, so she kneels before the saddlebag and pries it open.
And then she remembers the envelopes.
Wonder halts, her digits freezing. There they are, pressed together and yellowed with age, the parchment looking soft…and legible.
Here in the Peaks, she’ll be able to read the contents. And it’s wrong, so very wrong to intrude. But mustn’t she? They share a tumultuous past, and that past had consisted of letters just like these.
Just one peek. Her fingers shake as she lifts one of the envelopes and tugs on the flap. She swallows, withdraws the paper from inside, and unfolds it.
Immediately, Wonder wishes that she hadn’t.
At last, there’s no denying, no rebuttal, no chance. Her heart seizes as a flurry of words materialize…careless and stupid words. It’s penned in his handwriting, recognizable from the moments in which he’d vandalized her own notes just to spite her.
Yes, it’s his handwriting. But it’s not his prose.
It’s hers.
These are her words, from another century, from another place. These are the words she’d once written to that mortal boy…words she had written to Malice.
Because he’s that boy. That’s no longer a surprise.
The surprise is this: He remembers her.
In some way, he remembers her.
This explains why these missives resemble the ones from their history. He must have conjured them to look this way, fashioning them into replicas and then transcribing the contents by channeling his nightmares. It’s the only feasibility, seeing as the originals no longer exist, for Wonder knows what befell them.
The note in her hand is a clone of her dozenth letter. What about the first one she’d written? Might she find a facsimile in this pile?
Is this why he’s here? To unearth answers about his past life, however much of it he recalls?
Wonder resists the temptation to dig in and learn more. She tucks the paper into her bodice, then fumbles to place the empty envelope back in its slot. The saddlebag is split wide open, with her guilty palm suspended over his collection.
Unfortunately, a shadow materializes. It looms over Wonder, swallowing her whole.
“Hmm,” a voice creeps from behind. “Big mistake, Wildflower.”
8
Daytime starlight slashes through the window. Blue streaks give the room a compass effect, the beams of light and dark pointing like hands. She can’t tell whether her throat bobs from remorse, mortification, or a fragile emotion linked to the words in that letter.
If she turns, will she see him differently? Will she see him? That dearest boy?
His silhouette puddles across the floor while foliage outside the window shivers, the fringed leaves chanting, Shhh. A youthful dragonfly has flitted into the dorms, landing on the desk and then zipping away.
Wonder twists, pretending to follow its trajectory. The insect zooms past Malice’s hip, and she focuses on the notch of his waist while bracing herself. Delaying any further will make her look weak and scarcely innocent.
Her eyes drag up his body, framed in the doorway. Malice idles on the threshold, his arms raised above his head, his fingers gripping the molding. This pushes him forward, angling him into a deep incline, a precarious and slippery slope.
This also places his attributes on display. The ridges of his biceps and the expanse of his torso, adding length and ripples to his form beneath the jeans and Henley. Destiny has converted him from a blushing mortal to a volatile troll outfitted in black, a dark specimen capped with the wrong color hair, those waves imbued as if he’s an angel.
When she meets his eyes, both incarnations stare back, so that her heart cracks.
It’s you. It’s really you.
But what’s happened to you? Why are you like this?
How I’ve missed you. How I loathe myself for what I did to you. How I despise you for what you’re doing to me.
I hate you. I love you.
I don’t forgive you. I’m sorry.
Wonder can look at him all day. And she cannot bear to look at him another second. It’s too much. She needs to get out of here before she dissolves and splashes to the floor, every word gushing out of her.
Is this why he treats her with vitriol? But it’s illogical. Malice may recall her letters to him, but he cannot know she’s the author. She was invisible back then; they never met in the flesh, much less in any guise. They’d never once spoken.
He remembers her words. But he cannot know her face or voice.
Can he? If he has somehow discovered that she’s the specter, it’s undetectable. But that’s Malice, seldom revealing what he wants, or feels, or knows. There are exceptions to this rule, but not many.
She gains her feet and matches his mask of indifference, blessed numbness settling over her. She has become accustomed to his unpredictable streak. She has gleaned the warning signs of when he’ll attack, when he’ll taunt, and when he’ll withdraw.
That deceptive calm suggests the latter, but she’s no fool: He’s livid.
His lips twist as he crooks a finger, silently beckoning her. If he wants Wonder to draw near, he’s got another thing coming.
Noting that, he boosts himself from the molding and prowls toward her, stopping close enough for her to see the charred flecks in his irises. And because she folds her hands in front of herself, he dips his head to examine the scars, which inspires him to swerve a fingernail, pretending to sketch the starburst marks. From the day they met in the Celestial City’s library, he’s been fixated on her wounds, while she has refused to give him a single tidbit of information. Denying Malice facts drives him to the precipice yet gives his adversaries power.
To this day, Wonder chooses power. Though her skin prickles from the illusion of his digit skimming her.
“Pain clashes with your skin tone,” he observes in a ghastly tone of voice. “Was it worth it?”
The subtext of his inquiry isn’t hard to miss. He’d seen her rifling through his envelopes, so it’s best not to explain until Malice decides what he wants to say. Otherwise, she’ll back herself into a corner and give him too much information to play with.
Was the pain worth it?
“I don’t know,” she replies, because she honestly doesn’t know anymore.
To which Malice gnashes his teeth. “Either you’re one hell of an overachiever, or you’re a nosy-assed goddess.”