have to worry that he’ll force himself on me.
I shudder.
“I’m sorry.”
I glance up at Fyel, wondering if he can see through me as easily as I see through him. “For what?”
“Not finding you sooner. I was not sure—”
He stops abruptly, hiding yet another piece of truth.
“I won’t deny it if you tell me,” I try. Hope.
But he shakes his head. “With you, Maire, I take no risks.” He pauses, and I stumble through his legs as though he isn’t there at all.
For a brief moment, I wonder if he isn’t, but if I have indeed gone mad, it certainly doesn’t feel any different from sanity.
“What?” I ask.
“Do not tell him about me.” His translucent body tenses.
“I haven’t. I won’t,” I promise. Then I laugh, a single, dry chuckle. “Why would I?”
He relaxes a fraction and gestures to the east. “Here.”
He slips through a space between pine and ash. I try to pick up my pace and follow after him, but my bad leg has grown remarkably heavy, and it’s a pathetic struggle to pass into the glade.
Fyel hovers a few feet ahead of me.
It’s a handsome glade, surrounded by very tall and very old trees. The sun cuts through their close-knit branches in a pretty manner, and the skinniest of brooks passes through the wild brush just off center of the oval-shaped clearing. A few butterflies dance about the brook, and a falcon studies me with one eye from a high perch.
“This could almost be romantic,” I say, and then grunt as I shift my splinted leg forward for better balance. Dead leaves and a twig have wedged between my foot and the wooden boot. Sweat trickles down my back as I pick my way toward Fyel.
A small smile touches his pale lips. He sinks closer to the ground, hovering just over its plants. It’s one of these plants he gestures to: a small bush of half-bloomed scarlet flowers, its leaves long, narrow, and covered in tiny thorns.
“What is this?” he asks.
I eye him for a moment, wondering why he brought me so far only to ask such a simple question. I limp closer to the plant. “It’s regladia. It’s technically a perennial subshrub, and it blooms from spring through autumn. They’re somewhat rare, which is unfortunate, because its leaves are a natural analgesic.”
I perk up at my own words and close the distance between the regladia and myself, using my thumbnail to pry free several of the spiked leaves. These will help treat my injury and the sore muscles I accrue daily.
“Thank you,” I say, shoving the leaves into my pocket.
“Maire.”
I glance at him.
“How do you know so much about this plant?”
“Because I—”
The words escape me.
How do I know?
There is no regladia in Carmine.
I’ve never seen this bush before.
My skin pebbles into cool bumps, and I stumble away from the scarlet flowers, nearly tripping over my cane. My head whips back toward Fyel. “I don’t know.” My chest constricts. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” My eyes water. My heart speeds. Why is it so hard to breathe?
“Maire—”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, grabbing the sides of my head. It hurts suddenly. Hurts like my leg does, dull and constant and pounding.
In my mind’s eye, I see hands holding the stems of these flowers, hands that are almost the same color as the crimson buds.
And then the picture is gone.
My knees feel like cake batter. I almost drop to the earth, but a sharp pain in my ankle pulls me back to myself, and I stumble forward instead, staying afoot. I suck in several deep breaths, trying to put together a puzzle to which I have no pieces.
A soft breeze tousles my hair. Fyel waits.
“Steel,” I say.
He hovers closer.
I drop my hands from my head and blink the sunlight from my eyes. Grasping my cane with both hands, I ask, “Do you know what steel is?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I do. I know what it is, but no one else does. And I don’t know how I know. I would think . . . I don’t remember my childhood. Nothing. Not my
I shudder.
“I’m sorry.”
I glance up at Fyel, wondering if he can see through me as easily as I see through him. “For what?”
“Not finding you sooner. I was not sure—”
He stops abruptly, hiding yet another piece of truth.
“I won’t deny it if you tell me,” I try. Hope.
But he shakes his head. “With you, Maire, I take no risks.” He pauses, and I stumble through his legs as though he isn’t there at all.
For a brief moment, I wonder if he isn’t, but if I have indeed gone mad, it certainly doesn’t feel any different from sanity.
“What?” I ask.
“Do not tell him about me.” His translucent body tenses.
“I haven’t. I won’t,” I promise. Then I laugh, a single, dry chuckle. “Why would I?”
He relaxes a fraction and gestures to the east. “Here.”
He slips through a space between pine and ash. I try to pick up my pace and follow after him, but my bad leg has grown remarkably heavy, and it’s a pathetic struggle to pass into the glade.
Fyel hovers a few feet ahead of me.
It’s a handsome glade, surrounded by very tall and very old trees. The sun cuts through their close-knit branches in a pretty manner, and the skinniest of brooks passes through the wild brush just off center of the oval-shaped clearing. A few butterflies dance about the brook, and a falcon studies me with one eye from a high perch.
“This could almost be romantic,” I say, and then grunt as I shift my splinted leg forward for better balance. Dead leaves and a twig have wedged between my foot and the wooden boot. Sweat trickles down my back as I pick my way toward Fyel.
A small smile touches his pale lips. He sinks closer to the ground, hovering just over its plants. It’s one of these plants he gestures to: a small bush of half-bloomed scarlet flowers, its leaves long, narrow, and covered in tiny thorns.
“What is this?” he asks.
I eye him for a moment, wondering why he brought me so far only to ask such a simple question. I limp closer to the plant. “It’s regladia. It’s technically a perennial subshrub, and it blooms from spring through autumn. They’re somewhat rare, which is unfortunate, because its leaves are a natural analgesic.”
I perk up at my own words and close the distance between the regladia and myself, using my thumbnail to pry free several of the spiked leaves. These will help treat my injury and the sore muscles I accrue daily.
“Thank you,” I say, shoving the leaves into my pocket.
“Maire.”
I glance at him.
“How do you know so much about this plant?”
“Because I—”
The words escape me.
How do I know?
There is no regladia in Carmine.
I’ve never seen this bush before.
My skin pebbles into cool bumps, and I stumble away from the scarlet flowers, nearly tripping over my cane. My head whips back toward Fyel. “I don’t know.” My chest constricts. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” My eyes water. My heart speeds. Why is it so hard to breathe?
“Maire—”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, grabbing the sides of my head. It hurts suddenly. Hurts like my leg does, dull and constant and pounding.
In my mind’s eye, I see hands holding the stems of these flowers, hands that are almost the same color as the crimson buds.
And then the picture is gone.
My knees feel like cake batter. I almost drop to the earth, but a sharp pain in my ankle pulls me back to myself, and I stumble forward instead, staying afoot. I suck in several deep breaths, trying to put together a puzzle to which I have no pieces.
A soft breeze tousles my hair. Fyel waits.
“Steel,” I say.
He hovers closer.
I drop my hands from my head and blink the sunlight from my eyes. Grasping my cane with both hands, I ask, “Do you know what steel is?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I do. I know what it is, but no one else does. And I don’t know how I know. I would think . . . I don’t remember my childhood. Nothing. Not my
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