9. Rowan

9

ROWAN

R owan snuck into the Borderwood after her morning of lessons and meditation. She left Cade with Aeoife so the girl wouldn't try to follow her to meet the Crone. Rowan needed answers, and she obviously couldn't go to the elders for help. The boards creaked beneath her feet as she crossed the rickety bridge to Crone's Cottage. Her footsteps echoed across the Mother's Lake.

The Crone stood at the threshold, waiting for her. "Thought you'd be here sooner, girl."

The earthy smell of dried lavender and mugwort greeted her as she entered the cottage. "I need your help."

"I know," the Crone sighed, gesturing to the table, where a cup of tea waited for Rowan. She could tell from the smell it was her favorite lavender-chamomile blend.

Sarai sat on her bed in the corner, studying a huge tome with fraying edges. She smiled at Rowan before turning her attention back to her studies.

The Crone sat down across from her at the table. Rowan's gaze snagged on the ancient-looking book in front of her. The paper looked nearly transparent, so dry and delicate it would simply crumble in the wrong hands. She tried to read the words, but before she made any sense of it, the Crone carefully closed the book. The History of Ballybrine Prophecy by Crone Arietta LaFray was stamped on the spine in faded black ink. The book was written by the previous Crone, Sarai's grandmother.

"Why are you looking at old prophecies?" Rowan asked.

"You want to know about what the elders said?" the Crone countered, ignoring her.

"Could I just put on a red dress?" Rowan started. "No one would know if I had or hadn't?—"

"Rowan, you know better. That's blasphemy in the eyes of the Mother," the Crone warned. Her eyes bore no judgment, just curiosity.

"I can't let those men use me like that. Isn't what I've done enough?" Rowan asked desperately. "Isn't it enough that I have given up everything else—family, love, all light in my life?"

"You need something beyond the Mother's light?" the Crone challenged.

Rowan scoffed. "As if her light has ever shone on me. I've spent my whole life in the dark about everything. Apparently, her light is reserved for those who relish in my misery."

The Crone's face was inscrutable.

"I really have to settle for being a sacrifice?" Rowan pressed. Her voice was as pathetic and small as she felt. "The Wolf said he and the Mother banished a greater evil with their bargain."

The Crone sat preternaturally still. She had a knack for weaponizing silences, whereas Rowan couldn't stand to sit with her thoughts. She spent enough time in meditation during the week, and she'd grown restless over the years, using much of her time to teach herself to play the piano.

"You should leave that alone, girl. Your sacrifice is bigger than just our town. There are sinister things beyond your wildest imagination," the Crone said.

Rowan huffed out a sigh and changed tactics. "Why can I sing plants back to life? What is the purpose? Have all Red Maidens been able to do that?" The words burst from her lips in a hushed frenzy.

The Crone looked at Sarai. "Leave us."

Sarai hesitated for a moment, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, before laying down her book and leaving her mother and Rowan alone in the cottage.

The Crone pursed her bloodred lips. "No, all Red Maidens could not do what you can. You are a change-maker. You'd be wise to keep that gift between us."

"Why?" Rowan challenged.

"Because in the wrong hands, it could throw off the balance between the realms."

Rowan stared at her. "What am I?"

"You're a spirit singer."

"Please just tell me," Rowan begged.

"I don't know."

The Crone had seemed to hold the answers for every question Rowan had asked over the years. It was simply a question of whether she'd share them.

"Why did you look at me so strangely on the night of my first trek?" Rowan asked.

"Because I saw a glimpse of darkness in you—a power that could tip the realms. I wasn't sure if telling you would make it better, but it's likely worse for you to be ignorant of it."

Rowan's mouth went dry. She sipped her tea until her hands stopped shaking, and the warmth of it settled in her stomach, grounding her.

"So what do I do?" she asked.

"Keep it to yourself for now."

"What do I do about the elders?"

The Crone looked at her with something resembling pity. "You endure them, as only those of us who must answer to their whims do. You do your best to entice the Wolf, and you pretend to be ordinary and pliant."

"I cannot?—"

"Rowan!" the Crone scolded. "Those who do not bend are broken. That is not a fate I wish for you."

Rowan stared at her. In all the time they'd known each other, the Crone had only called her by name in ceremony.

"Help me," Rowan pleaded.

"I am. I cannot save you. We all must save ourselves. Now finish your tea."

The Crone stood and beckoned Sarai back inside as Rowan drank her tea down to the dregs.

"Sarai, check the leaves," the Crone instructed.

Rowan grinned as she flipped her cup onto the saucer, spun it in a circle, and pulled it away so that Sarai could read the leaves. It was a recently emerged talent of Sarai's that the Crone did not possess.

Sarai stared at the pattern on the saucer, and her eyes unfocused. Her voice took on a strange, singsong tone. " There's life in the darkness. Violence and blood. A song that's haunting, lovely, and full of longing. A bright light and a life-saving bargain. Take it ."

Sarai blinked rapidly, and her eyes refocused on the leaves before she looked up at Rowan.

"What was that?" Rowan asked. Panic crept into her voice. "What does it mean?"

Sarai stared at her. "What did I say?"

"Calm down, girl. Sarai doesn't always remember, nor does she know the exact meaning of prophecies. Some things aren't understood until they are set in motion," the Crone admonished her.

Rowan crossed her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair. She studied the tea leaves—the answers to all her questions were written among them in a language she didn't speak. Every answer and every new bit of information only led to new questions. There seemed to be no bottom to the well of knowledge she lacked.

Rowan stood and stormed out of the cottage. She walked down the wood bridge to land, listening to the hollow echo of her footsteps on the old wood.

"Rowan, wait!" Sarai's voice and hurried footsteps trailed along behind her.

Rowan stopped where the dock met the land and waited for her friend.

Sarai linked arms with her. "Let's walk. Tell me about the Wolf."

Rowan walked through the Borderwood with her friend and told her about everything that had happened. When she was finished, Sarai stopped walking and turned to face her. Sarai didn't judge her for falling asleep, and she seemed just as surprised that the Wolf and his reaper were so accommodating.

"So what are you going to do?" Sarai asked.

Rowan shrugged. "I don't know what choice I have. I have to entice him. As worried as I am about what will happen with him, I'm more worried about the elders. Elder Garrett has had it out for me since?—"

"I know," Sarai interrupted. "Finn told me. He was distraught. He came to my mother hoping she would do something."

Rowan stared at her, jaw slack. "He did?"

It was so unlike Finn to ruffle feathers like that.

"She told him what you did," Sarai sighed. "That no one would believe you, and unless he witnessed it himself, the only one whose character it would hurt would be yours."

Sarai reached out and took her hand. "Rowan, I told Mama I don't remember my prophecies, but that's not always true. I do remember a part of that last one, but it's just a message for you alone."

Rowan stared at her friend.

" Love is the thing that holds back the dark ," Sarai whispered.

"What does it mean?"

"I don't know, but it's important. Maybe it's about Finn," Sarai teased.

Rowan cocked her head to the side. "Sarai, do you think that Finn really loves me?"

"I think he thinks he does, and in this world, that's all you can really hope for," Sarai replied. "Maybe that is the root of love that the big bloom grows from."

Sarai could be both eloquent and pragmatic, and the simplicity with which she viewed the world left Rowan feeling like a silly romantic. They walked in silence for a while, leaves crunching under their boots.

"I don't know what is happening, but something in our world is shifting, and it's not just the new religion in the north," Sarai said. "My mother has been poring over Grandma's prophecies and she won't tell me why. Regardless, I think your path will become clear the more you walk it. For now, you only need to see the next few steps ahead of you, like walking with a lantern. The path will reveal itself as you go."

Rowan had never been good at leaps of faith. She'd never been good at having faith at all, but she trusted her friend.

"Do you ever think about what you would be if your birth didn't decide for you?" Rowan asked.

Sarai shook her head and smiled. "I was always going to be what I am. I have the heart of a witch and the soul of a wild woman. I couldn't and I wouldn't want to be anything else. There's freedom in being feared and respected, even if I'll never be as powerful as I should be in Ballybrine. This world won't hand us power, Rowan. If we want it, we'll have to find our spots to take it."

"But how?" Rowan asked.

"You go back out there and control what you can. If you need the Wolf to want you, make him."

Rowan nodded and then pulled her friend into her arms. "I think your prophecy was wrong," she whispered. "I think you're the thing that holds back the dark."

She and Sarai stood there hugging each other for a long time—until twilight pulled ribbons of color across the horizon, the air chilled, and the forest stirred with the gentle rustle and chirp of wildlife—until they both felt anchored, if only to each other.

Rowan belted out her song as she marched down the trail toward Wolf's Keep. The Gratitude and Grieving Ceremony hadn't been nearly as intimidating the second time around, though she felt more uneasy than ever around the elders. Every glance from the men felt like she was being undressed by their eyes.

She'd spent the entire week sneaking through Maiden's Tower, looking for the journals of past Red Maidens, and had come up empty. She'd sent Cade into the Temple of the Mother to spy and look for hiding spots, but he'd also had no luck.

Cade was silent beside her, though he occasionally turned to check on the procession of spirits trailing behind.

There was very little moonlight, and the darkness felt more stifling than it had on her first journey. A stiff wind rustled the trees along the sides of the trail, and they groaned into motion. There was no growling to be heard over the sound of her song, but she sensed the beasts of the Dark Wood waiting for her to make one false move and stray from the trail. She didn't hear so much as feel the eyes on her and the tremorous crunch of claws in the pulped-leaf dirt on the forest floor.

It was a relief that the group of spirits following her was smaller and more manageable. It allowed Rowan's mind to wander as she sang. After turning Maiden's Tower upside-down looking for the journals, she was convinced they had to be somewhere in the temple archives. She'd avoided them all week for fear of running into Elder Garrett, but she'd have to summon the courage to explore the following week. She needed to know what her predecessors had known. Rowan was tired of being blind in the middle of the tempest brewing in Ballybrine.

She was so lost in thought that the sight of Wolf's Keep startled her. The mansion walls rose out of the misty evening, all rough charcoal stone and modest peaks. It seemed too grand a home for one god, with its massive, arched windows and stained glass.

Rowan finished the song and knelt, casting her gaze down at the ground as the Wolf's boots came into view.

Her mouth felt suddenly dry and her hands shook. Rowan did not know how she would seduce the Wolf, but she needed to control what she could and forget the rest. She'd found that waiting for something terrible to happen had always felt worse than the thing itself. At least now, she could try to steer things, even if it was in her own clumsy, awkward way.

She waited for the spirits to cross over before she lifted her eyes and looked at Conor.

"Come in and warm up. We should talk," Conor said. He reached out a hand, and she placed her chilly palm in his.

When they stepped inside, Conor helped her with her red cloak. She shifted so his fingers brushed the skin of her shoulders as he grasped the heavy fabric

Conor leaned closer, his breath ghosting over her shoulder as the cloak dropped away and revealed the plunging bias-cut back of the dress that draped just above her backside. The seamstress had taken Mrs. Teverin's advice and truly outdone herself with the new dress.

Rowan gasped as one of Conor's fingers trailed up her spine. He leaned so close his lips brushed the shell of her ear.

"This is a very interesting dress, Rowan."

She held perfectly still as he tossed her cloak on a chair and moved around her. Conflict twisted her stomach in knots. She was afraid of what he'd do, but more afraid she'd go back to Ballybrine a failure.

There was no mistaking the hunger in Conor's eyes as he followed the lace that dipped down between her breasts. It was easily the most scandalous dress she'd ever seen, let alone worn.

"Do you like it?" Rowan asked hopefully, stepping into the firelight and slowly spinning to let him take in the full view.

His gaze raked over her in a way that made her feel as if she was wearing nothing at all. She shifted to give him a glimpse of her leg through the slit up the side.

Conor arched a brow. "Do you ?"

She frowned. "It's the finest dress I've ever owned. I think it's beautiful."

"But do you feel like yourself in it?"

The dress was a stunning work of art, but Rowan felt a bit like she was playing a character—a sexier, more confident version of herself.

"If you could wear anything, would you wear this?" he asked.

It was impossible to lie under the heat of his gaze. Rowan shook her head, and his lips quirked into a half-grin. Every smile she earned from him required a gallant effort. He always seemed to be fighting to maintain his stern demeanor.

"Why?"

"Well, I feel rather…naked," she admitted.

"That's a bad thing?" His tone was teasing, but her cheeks heated. "I must admit, I rather like the way you blush so easily. It's charming."

Rowan's eyes darted to his. Of all things for him to be charmed by.

"It's not an entirely practical dress," she murmured.

"I suppose it depends on what you're doing," Conor said.

Rowan tilted her chin down so her hair fell in front of her heated cheeks.

Thankfully, he said nothing else as he crossed the room and picked up his robe. He helped her into it, allowing his fingers to trail over her shoulders and up her neck as she shivered.

"Thank you. I was cold," she said, trying to cover up her reaction to Conor's proximity.

He turned and made his way to a chair by the fire. Rowan followed, easing herself into the plush velvet seat. There was already a mug of hot cider waiting for her. This time, as she sipped, she welcomed the harsh burn of the whiskey.

"The elders want answers about the blight. You said not to worry about it, but they've made it my problem," Rowan said.

"Aren't you all business?" he teased. "It's still spreading."

"Is there a way to stop it?" she asked.

"There is, but it's absolutely a last resort."

She swallowed thickly. "Do you want to stop it?"

He stared, his eyes almost animalistic in their assessment of her. She was used to hearing the rhythmic pulse of people's energy and could make sense of their feelings from it, but Conor was silent, unreadable. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"It seems to me it would be to your benefit for death to spread, no?" It was a bold question, but she was tired of dancing around things. She couldn't return to the elders without answers.

Conor gulped down his cider. The steam from it clouded her view of his eyes as he watched her over the rim of his mug.

"I can see why you would think that, but there's meant to be a balance between the worlds, Rowan. I have no use for the living," he said finally.

It wasn't exactly an answer. Rowan raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to say more, but he didn't.

"Did you kill Orla?" The question slipped out in a rush of breath.

Conor's expression was placid, but his eyes narrowed on her. She clenched her hands, waiting for his response.

"I may not have struck the killing blow, but I blame myself all the same," he said at last.

Rowan waited breathlessly for him to say more. Once again, he left her wanting, but if he was admitting responsibility, it was wise not to push.

He sipped his cider, his gaze fixed on her. "How was your week?"

She let out a surprised giggle.

"That's funny?"

Rowan clapped a hand over her mouth. "No, I'm sorry. It's just an abrupt deflection, and that's not what I was expecting." She considered pressing further. "My week was—it was terrible. Everyone is disappointed that you didn't take me to bed. I've never had so many people so interested in my virtue. It's quite uncomfortable. Worse, I found out there's?—"

She cut herself off. If Conor didn't know about the journals, it was possible they held secrets about him.

"Yes?" Conor asked.

"An old tradition during which the elders attempt to make me more worthy of your devouring that sounds rather—" She searched for the word for it, but nothing felt quite right. Repulsive? Harrowing? Needlessly mysterious? "Unpleasant."

Conor waited for her to say more, but she met him with the same stoic silence he gave her when she showed interest in a topic. She held his gaze, allowing the robe to slide down her shoulder. Conor tracked the movement with predatory interest. She closed her eyes, trying to sense a magical melody around him, but still only found a pleasant silence.

He looked out the window. "You should probably go back soon, Rowan. It's late, and it will only be colder as the night drags on."

Panic surged through her body. She shuddered as she remembered Elder Garrett's hands on her. She could not fail again.

"You're right. Someone will be waiting for me."

Conor frowned, but he didn't take the bait. Maybe he was immune to jealousy.

She jumped to her feet, trying to think of any excuse to spend more time with him and find out if he'd given any more consideration to changing his bargain with the Mother. The oversized robe slipped off her shoulders, pooling on the floor.

He'd seen it before, but he assessed the dress as if he hadn't. It took an eternity for him to drink her in, from her boots all the way up the slit in the leg to the plunging neckline. Finally, he met her eyes and goosebumps broke out on her skin.

"I need more cider," she said tightly. She didn't know how else to buy herself time.

He offered her a lupine smile. "No need to panic, lass. I'm happy to get you more." He stood and left the room.

A moment later, Charlie materialized in the doorway between one blink and the next.

"There now, lass, I only have a moment before he's back," the reaper whispered. "I couldn't help but overhear you try instilling jealousy in the Wolf. Be careful what you tell him. He is quite possessive, and you wouldn't want one of your little friends to get hurt."

Rowan bit her lip and nodded. Though she'd conjured an image of Finn waiting for her in her mind, the warning didn't make her think of him first. Instead, she thought of Elder Garrett. Perhaps she could tell Conor about him, as Cade had suggested.

A smirk tugged on her lips as she imagined allowing the Wolf to rip Elder Garrett to shreds. Perhaps the Crone was right and there was darkness in her, but instead of feeling satisfaction, the idea filled her with dread. She didn't need to be in debt to a god.

"I'm afraid of whatever thought made you look so devious," Charlie said with a wink.

Conor came back into the room, cider in hand, and Charlie excused himself with a nod to the Wolf.

"I need to give you something," Conor said as he handed her the steaming mug.

Rowan stared at him in surprise. She'd never really owned anything. She'd worn hand-me-downs her whole life as the youngest of five children and then as a Red Maiden. Only the delicate silk gowns made to send her to the Wolf were her own. Outside of her inherited dresses, she was permitted no personal belongings or finery. The elders felt possessions led to greed and vanity and would chip away at her purity.

She held out her hand to Conor.

"It's not that type of gift. I want to give you my favor so that I can track you on your journey," Conor said.

"Okay. What do I do?" she asked.

He leaned close. Rowan trembled, nearly dropping her mug of cider. Conor licked his lips as he took the mug from her hand and set it on the table next to her chair.

He turned his attention back to her. She forced herself to hold perfectly still as he stepped so close that the fine velvet of his tunic nearly brushed against her dress. He bent low, his cheek almost brushing hers.

Conor hesitated a moment before kissing the place where her neck met her shoulder. Her skin beneath his lips tingled pleasantly. He trailed his nose up her neck, sending a shiver through her body.

He pulled back and met her eyes, both of them breathless and utterly still.

"How does it work?" Rowan rasped.

"It gives me a stronger sense of your location. I'll be able to find you wherever you are."

She swallowed hard and nodded as she brushed her fingers over the place where her skin still prickled from his kiss.

"You should head out now," Conor said.

"Are you sure that you wouldn't rather I stayed?" She tried to make the words sound seductive, but only sounded uncertain.

She ran her fingers over her collarbone, and Conor's eyes followed the movement with heated interest. She didn't really know how to be sexy. Rowan had spent years learning about every depraved and sexual thing the Wolf might want to do, but she felt ill-equipped to flirt. None of her training assumed that she would need to pursue him .

"Would you rather that?" Conor asked skeptically.

"Yes," she said, allowing her fingers to trail down the lace neckline of her dress.

Conor's throat bobbed as her hand fell away. He ran a finger down her neck to the center of her chest, pausing between her breasts—her skin tingling in the wake of his touch.

He froze as he ran his tongue over his lips. "Liar," he murmured. He shook his head. "While I enjoy the sweetness of those burnt-sugar lies, I don't like being lied to."

He looked away. His face shuttered and all the ground Rowan felt she had gained slipped away under her feet. She was entirely out of her depth with Conor.

"Go home, little Red. Get some sleep and stop trying to be someone you aren't."

A violent flush heated Rowan's cheeks as she turned away and dashed into the hall.

She scolded herself for being such a clumsy, awkward woman. She was mortified by her lack of experience. Worse, she was desperate to get it over with so that she could stop worrying about the elders—so she could stop worrying about the experience itself. The dread of it stalked her daily like a specter. She was haunted by a fate she knew awaited her, and unlike the actual spirits in her life, she did not know how to put the anxiety of what awaited her to rest.

Rowan opened the entryway closet and grabbed her cloak, pulling it over her shoulders. She froze, her gaze locked on something red in the shadows of the closet. Grabbing it, she held it up to the lantern light.

It was a Red Maiden's cloak. Rowan's mind drew up the image of Orla splayed out on the forest floor without her cloak. Searching the neckline, she found Orla's initials along with a dried blood stain.

Rowan's hands shook. She'd believed Conor when he said he didn't hurt Orla, but now she felt foolish for taking him at his word.

She flung the cloak back to where it had been poorly hidden and dashed out of Wolf's Keep.