Chapter Twenty-Four

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

E verything had gone to shit. I should have known better than to be surprised by something blowing up in my face, but I was. The shock was so strong I felt sick with it.

I stumbled away from the tower as fast as I could, only pausing when Sybilla's birch tree barrier appeared in front of me. Their bark was a subtle glow in the dark, pale and moon soft, and beyond their slender trunks the rest of the forest loomed large.

The temptation to keep walking was strong. Doubtless there was some monster lurking nearby who would use tooth and claw to make all of me match—it had always seemed strange, how much agony could remain invisible—but in the end I didn't step beyond the circle's protection. Maybe it was some scrap of self-preservation kicking in, but more likely it was just the curse, making me reluctant to travel farther from Grimm. Even my misery was subject to his whims.

Sinking to the grass, I leaned forward and rested my head on my knees. My breath was shallow and quick, like my ribs couldn't fully expand. Every time I swallowed, I felt like I was holding something back. There was no music, or drink, or company to wash the panic away. There was only me and the memories flashing across the backs of my eyelids.

I wrote the Grandmagic that killed my mother.

The night was cold. I opened my eyes and tried to focus on the bite in the air, the discomfort of it. When that was not enough, I ran my hands through my hair and down to the back of my neck, pressing my nails in until I felt the sting. The pain gave me something to latch on to, like a drowning man might cling to a rope.

In the midst of this, the steady ache of the curse began to ebb. Then came footsteps, wandering this way and that—Grimm, looking for me in the dark.

He searched for some time, calling out my name in a hushed voice. I didn't answer. I wanted him a thousand miles away, even if it made me ill. But the circle around the tower was not large, and eventually the footsteps stopped short in front of me.

I did not look up. Doubtless it was too dark for me to read his face even if I had, but I was afraid that the horror I'd seen inside was still painted there.

Grimm let out a sigh. "Loveage," he began.

"Don't apologize again," I said sharply. "I swear if you do, I'll get up and walk into the woods and let myself get eaten by the first monster I find. And you may not miss me, and in fact it might solve many of your current problems, but I know you, and your conscience couldn't bear being responsible for something like that. So keep your apologies to yourself."

"All right," Grimm said. I'd hoped he would leave, but instead he sat down only an arm's length away. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Why on earth would I want that?" I asked, astonished.

"Because a moment ago, all I said was your name and you spat back a whole monologue. You like to talk. And it can be helpful, sometimes. To speak things aloud. I don't know the details of what happened, but—"

"You're right. You don't."

"I would if you told me."

The nerve of him. To force a confession from me and then offer this. If I were going to lay my troubles at anyone's feet, it would not be Sebastian Grimm's, with his uncompromising morals and unsympathetic gaze.

And yet.

It was not sympathy I wanted. If this had been the case, I would have told Agnes, whose warmth and caring for me knew no bounds. This was Grimm, who already thought the worst of me anyway, most of the time. At least his opinion wouldn't have as far to sink. And, gallingly, he was right. The urge to explain myself was simmering under my skin. I'd never told this story. To anyone.

I found myself poised on a precipice, breath held and palms tingling. Then I began to speak.

"I was obsessed with Grandmagic as a child." I shot a sideways look at Grimm. "It might be hard for you to imagine now, but I was quite good at it back then. I wanted to be better, though. The best. I set my sights on healing spells, because those seemed the most likely to get me attention if I succeeded. I spent hours in the library, poring over every successful version of one. Why it worked, theories on why they were so hard to replicate. It was a puzzle, and I liked puzzles. I thought I was good at them. You think me insufferable now, but I was shockingly arrogant then. I'd never failed at anything, you see. I thought myself invincible. Then my mother was poisoned."

Rainer and I had been there when it happened, sparring in the garden. "Don't you dare trample my peonies," mother had shouted, but she'd been laughing. The next minute, she was falling, all her assembled blooms scattered around her. When Rainer and I came running, she made an agonized sound, one flower crushed close to her chest, as though she was trying to keep it hidden from us. It looked just like all the rest, an ordinary peony, save for the cut stem, which wept purple. That's what made masquerade flowers so dangerous—they were mimics, copying whatever plant they grew beside down to the tiniest outward detail, but the amethyst sap that ran through them was poison to the touch. Death disguised by beauty.

"We called for our father, and a doctor. Got her into the house." That part had been awful. Rainer was older and had taken most of the weight on himself, but I'd had to carry her legs so they wouldn't drag. Her eyes had been open but glassy, unseeing. "The doctor said her body would either fight the poison or succumb to it over the following days. That there was no cure except her own strength prevailing. Perhaps that would have been enough—my mother was very strong—but she never had a chance. I wrote a spell that night and got Rainer to cast it. He thought he was just humoring me, but the next morning our mother got out of bed like nothing had happened. I was so pleased. Not just that she was well, but that I'd been right . That I was the one who had cured her. She collapsed at the breakfast table later that morning. Gone."

A jar of peach jam had fallen from the table and smashed on the floor. There was so much about that morning that had become a blur, but I remembered that. The smell of it. I still couldn't look at a peach without feeling sick, never mind eating one. I started telling everyone I was allergic, and Rainer looked on knowingly but never said a word.

Grimm stirred beside me, calling me back to the present. "Failing to save someone is not the same thing as killing them."

I shook my head slowly. "My brother told me that too. He didn't understand. Neither did I, at first. But then I went back to look at the spell. I wanted to know why it hadn't worked. That's when I realized my mistake. I hadn't healed her at all. I'd only condensed the time she had left. The doctor said she needed to be strong, so I gathered all her strength and poured it into a handful of hours—not even a day's worth of time. Once it was used up, she had nothing left to fight with. The poison blazed through her and burned her up in an instant. My spell. My mistake. My fault, Grimm." I stretched my lips in a mockery of a smile. "Is this the part where I feel better, now that I've confessed? Or is this the part where you regret not turning me over to the Coterie when you had the chance?"

Grimm let out his breath in a huff. It was the same sound he made when annoyed, only much softer. "I don't know what will make you feel better. But you were a child who wanted to use your power to help and it went horribly, horribly wrong. You don't deserve to suffer for that."

This was edging uncomfortably close to pity for my taste. I wrapped the fingers of my right hand around my opposite wrist, clutching so tight I could feel where the bones ground together. Right over the spot where my father's hand had circled after I told him what I'd done.

"I know you feel guilty right now, Grimm, but you're wasting an opportunity to tell me I was wrong and careless and have me actually agree with you . The magic agrees with you too. It saw what I did and decided to punish me accordingly. That's why my scriving is the way it is. I've borne that judgment all these years, I think I can bear yours as well."

"Is that why you decided to tell me?" Grimm asked. "Because you thought I would condemn you?"

"I thought you would tell me the truth," I said. "Not give in to sympathy when it's undeserved."

Grimm leaned forward a little to study my face in the dark. He looked unhappy. Shadows gathered in the frown lines on his forehead, settling between his eyes.

"Fine," he said at last. "Here is the truth, though I don't think it's actually what you want to hear. You're wrong, Loveage. Magic thrives on intent, not judgment. You're punishing yourself . You're the one who believes you will cause harm. The magic is only listening to what you tell it."

If he had hit me, I don't think I could have been more shocked. "You think I'm doing it on purpose ?"

Grimm shook his head impatiently. "No. I think you were afraid of hurting anyone with Grandmagic again, so you gave yourself a reason not to use it at all."

"That's ridiculous," I scoffed. "Utter garbage. You're not even a scriver; what do you know about it? You just turn on a faucet and let the magic flow through you."

Grimm raised one brow. "Shall we go ask Sybilla what she thinks about my theory?"

"No," I said quickly. Then, more quietly, "Not tonight. I'm tired."

I really was. A bone-deep sort of tiredness that would have made me want to curl up in the grass and fall asleep, if only I weren't so afraid of what I would see once my eyes were closed.

"Will you come inside?" Grimm asked. "It's very cold out here."

That was it, I realized. He had nothing more to say. I had laid bare the darkest, most wretched part of myself, and Grimm was still asking me to walk back to the tower with him in a matter-of-fact voice. As though there had never been any other possible conclusion.

My heart gave a painful thump.

I might have loved him for that, I thought, if I hadn't already loved him anyway. I did my best to tuck this thought away where it was safe from all the rest. This scrap of affection was mine.

We got to our feet, brushing away grass and leaves. The ground floor of the tower was empty when we arrived, Sybilla having disappeared to one of the memory rooms. I was glad not to have to explain myself to her just now, though I was certain I would be forced to in the morning.

Grimm led the way up the stairs to our room. Opening the door, he glanced dismissively at my pile of blankets on the floor and told me to take the bed.

"It's your bed," I protested. "I'm sad, not an invalid."

Grimm's eyes narrowed. "I'm not giving it to you because you're sad, Loveage. I'm giving it to you because that spell we cast nearly knocked you out and you've been hobbling around ever since like you're one hundred years old."

The bed was obscenely comfortable. I wondered if it had been this soft in reality, or if it was Sybilla's memories that made the pillows fluffier and the blankets warmer. Despite all of this, and despite my exhaustion, I lay awake long after the candles had been extinguished, staring at the ceiling. I knew there was not enough wine or music in the world to stop bad dreams coming for me. It was all swirling around in my head, too close to the surface, just waiting for me to drift off.

I looked down at Grimm on the floor. His eyes were closed, but by now I was familiar with his sleeping face, and this was not it. When Grimm truly slept, his face went slack and oddly young, transformed by the lack of frown lines. It made me wonder what I looked like, when all my artifices were put to bed.

"Grimm," I whispered.

His eyes opened immediately. "What is it?"

"Will you do something for me?"

I watched him struggle over how to answer. He wanted to know what I was asking for before he agreed, but he had also upset the balance between us with his misstep earlier. I was shamelessly counting on that to earn me this favor.

Grimm was fair like that.

"All right," he said.

I licked my lips, full of both dread and desperate want.

"Tell me not to dream," I said. "I'm so tired, but I know the nightmares will come as soon as I fall asleep and I—I can't close my eyes. The only way I'll get any rest tonight is if I know I'm safe from them."

Grimm was quiet for a long time before answering. "Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Wouldn't you rather I tell you to dream of happy things?"

"No," I said. "That's painful too."

Grimm shifted, blankets rustling as he rolled over so his whole body was facing me. We stayed that way for a moment, watching each other.

"Go to sleep, Leovander," he said at last. "Dream of nothing."

I shivered once at the sound of Grimm speaking my name, then the lull of obedience swept over me and I closed my eyes.