Yet it dwindles quickly, overshadowed by reality. His nightmares comprise the tattered remains of his past, a past that’s pulling him into fragments. Does he know the vision was once reality? Does he know that it really happened to him? She still hasn’t gleaned exactly how much he recalls.
Regardless, after last night and everything she’s heard, Wonder has to tell him about the legend. If recovering his heart will revive the memories and the part of himself that died, then he might find peace. With any hope, he’ll never scream again, not as he had last night.
Then again, there’s no guarantee. She can only beseech the stars that remembering won’t otherwise lead to additional nightmares.
And friends or not, rivals or not, enemies or not, this will end only one way. Either Malice won’t get his memory back and continue to suffer this trauma, in addition to despising her. Or he will get his memory back, a platform on which to begin healing, in addition to remembering what she did to him. At which point, any speck of companionship will vanish, and he will rue the day she was born.
It will always cycle back to hate.
But if Wonder succeeds in releasing her own heart, how he feels about her won’t matter, because she won’t care. She’ll have emancipated herself from this emotional clutter, her mission in life narrowing to that of an immortal librarian and archeress, not a pining one obsessed with a dead boy, nor a grieving female who knits other couples together in order to compensate for loneliness. She’ll be strong once more, pumped with vigor for this struggle over equality between realms.
There’s one fatal flaw to this hour: Their hands are still clasped between them. As Wonder tries to wriggle free, his fingers tighten. Her gaze springs to his eyes only to discover those chasms awake and piercing.
“Slumber is a fickle pastime,” Malice intones. “It renders you helpless yet sets you free.”
“I want my fingers back,” Wonder says. “Let go of them.”
“I’m sure you do. It’s nice to have fingers. They’re practical for touching and fondling things that don’t belong to you. Things like secrets.”
“You’re referring to more than just secrets.”
“You’re right. I’m referring to fornication.”
She jerks her digits from his grip. “I see that side of your cerebrum is intact.”
“I see the topography of your own cranium has reached maximum capacity and needs to unload.”
Malice does this whenever he’s uncomfortable, whenever he gets desperate. He tosses out suggestive comments, making others squirm so that he doesn’t have to. Based on his belligerent expression, he knows that she knows.
His features ricochet between sober and silken and scathing, between harsh and harsher and harshest. It’s ill-advised to show him compassion or pity. Even while holding her fingers prisoner, his eyes shout the obvious protests: how she shouldn’t have barged into his room, how he wants her out of here so he can fester and break something.
But he’s right. Her mind is filled to the brim, crammed with too much of him and not enough of her. And that, she will not stand for.
Wonder meets his stare. “I found something.”
She tells him. She tells him when, and how, and what. She tells him about the legend.
Wonder omits two things. One, the portion about releasing her own heart. Two, how she’d used the letter from his saddlebag to uncover the legend’s text. Instead, she replaces that detail with a random sheet of paper.
When she finishes, Malice’s silence permeates the room, amplifying every shuffle of the blanket. If she gives him enough time, he’ll fish through her thoughts and hook on to the missing pieces. Already he’s picking through her words, scavenging for ulterior motives or errors of logic. That’s what he does—overthinks and overcomplicates.
Whipping back the linen, Wonder swings her legs over the side. As she stands, Malice’s pupils latch on to the strap of her camisole, which has slid down her shoulder, exposing the summit of a breast. A scant two inches more, and the bud of a nipple will make a grand entrance.
She yanks the strap back in place. But it only encourages his gaze to detour, an excursion down her unkempt locks, then continuing across the satin plains of her sleepwear before making a return trip, ascending to the freesias at the crooks of her eyes.
She cannot remember a time when Malice has ever been this quiet. No snarls or sarcasm.
“I’m telling you this because of the nightmares,” she says. “Because nightmares are usually about fears or guilt or injuries. Whatever’s plaguing you, it’s feeding on your soul, and don’t get me started on what it’s doing to your sanity. I cannot embark fully on this mission if your capriciousness keeps getting in the way—not when you consider this quest a mutual abduction, and not with you ruining my sleep. If you recover your heart, perhaps success shall reward you with a piece of…of whomever you used to be before those nightmares.
“This isn’t a merciful or kindly gesture. It’s a pragmatic one, so don’t get fussy about it. There, I’ve done my duty and told you,” she finishes. “It’s your choice whether to believe it or not, but I don’t have time to sit around and wait. I have my own priorities to hack through.”
Wonder exits the room and rushes to her dorm. She needs to peel these garments from her skin before she does something stupid like trace the satin contours. Fates, it’s like he’s cosmically bound himself to the material so that she can feel his stare all over her.
She rips off the camisole and pants, then gets dressed in a hurry, choosing fresh harem pants and a customary off-the-shoulder blouse. To complete the look, she affixes her ponytail with a chrysanthemum.
At last, she harnesses her archery. Dangers abound outdoors, as they do indoors. Nevertheless, she selects one peril over another, because research can wait.
In other words, she needs air.
Inside the palm of the valley’s woodland, the repository bridges the distance between the heavens and the underworld. Beeches climb into the hemisphere while their roots thread into the grass, the environment half celestial landmark, half sylvan shrine. It’s of the sky, earth, and soil.
Pausing beneath the arcade of gnarled branches and leaves etched in amethyst, Wonder indulges in a deep, spectral breath. And the instant she steps into the woodland, her mood improves. Even a goddess needs a hiatus, or a holiday, or at least a siesta.
Caution first. A month of spiritual withdrawal though it may be, breaking curfew for a brief session of merrymaking is a minor infraction. Someone might partake in a stroll, a gallivant, or a tumble. She stands vigil, scanning the vicinity for signs of frolics or escapades: the tinkle of a deity’s voice, chimerical laughter or moans, the crackle of bracken, or the twang of a bowstring.
There’s nothing but the serene drone of adolescent dragonflies, glowing creatures that flit through the boughs, their organza wings vibrating. Soon enough, they will grow larger than she. For now, they’re content to hunt pollen and chase dawn’s starlight.
Wonder hikes along one of her favorite trails, which winds into the mystic netting of brambles and lithesome blooms. Her stomach grumbles, because it’s been a while since her last proper nourishment. On the way, she collects a sprig of edible crocuses, nibbling on the tart stems, the purple petals releasing sugar on her tongue.