23. Belladonna

23

BELLADONNA

The days slip by, one after the other, there and gone in a pleasant bliss that feels as though a spell is wrapped around me. It’s not. I’ve learned the sensation of Rusalka’s magic and how it differs from the others in their Insomnior Court. I’ve chosen not to ask to attend any of the parties since the first, but I sometimes hear the festivities late in the night when I’m sprawled next to Rusalka, letting their breathing soothe something in me that I didn’t know was broken.

I spend my days in the garden. Bogdan is only a little grumpy; I don’t know what Azazel was going on about. He’s practically an angel as far as I’m concerned, with endless patience, even on days when children start to filter into the garden, all barely constrained curiosity about me and enthusiasm for digging in the dirt.

When he gets gruff—and he never gets gruff with the kids—he never raises his voice or makes remarks about my value as a human being or tells me that I’m disappointing him. It’s as healing as my nights with Rusalka to have someone correct me without hurting me in the process.

And time with the children?.?.?. They’re their own kind of healing. They are all so different, from Brin, with her love of pretty dresses ansd flowers in her hair, to Mac, who thinks every problem can be solved with his fire powers, to quiet Sari, who is content to kneel at my side and mimic my movements, their orange eyes wide and excited to be allowed to help with “adult things” like weeding.

There’s no fear in them. No shame. They are growing up free and loved by every adult around them, cherished and protected. I didn’t know it could be like this. When my mind wanders while my fingers are in the dirt, I catch myself wondering what my child might be like raised in a community this willing to hold them with love and care.

The thought of having children to feed into the church, to raise its numbers, to prepare for a holy war that might never come?.?.?. it filled me with a dread I don’t know how to quantify.

But having a child here? That’s a completely different feeling. That’s a future that fills my chest with such hope, it could make me weep. There is cruelty, even in this realm, but at least any child of mine would be protected until they were old enough to face that cruelty without being broken by it.

Until they were old enough to step into a leadership position to further protect the children that will come after them.

Even with those thoughts—those possibilities—circling closer every day, I put off having the conversation with Rusalka about a baby, and then I put it off again. It’s not that I’m not becoming more and more enamored with the idea of having a child here, or that I don’t want to help the people who have welcomed me into their community without hesitation. I want both. It’s just?.?.?. this life is nice.

I’m not quite ready for it to end, to change.

That thought continues to take up residence in my mind in the couple of weeks after our awkward dinner with Azazel. I try to root it out as I weed the section of the gardens Bogdan has assigned me for the day, but it’s not as eager to submit as the little shoots of purple grass in moist soil are. The children are off on a chaperoned hike today—a lovely way to burn off some of their endless energy—and their absence is giving me too much time to think.

More thoughts circle and circle, taking bites out of me with each pass. I try to ignore them, but it’s not like ignoring the horrible things my parents and Pastor John used to say to me under the guise of looking out for my immortal soul. Those voices still plague me, but they’re getting fainter every day. But these words? They’re mine. An admission of selfishness that I can’t quite escape.

There’s no reason to wait. A baby will secure this territory and its people. Yes, it means my purpose will have been served. But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?

Though maybe Rusalka won’t be as interested in me if she’s not worried about the future of her people. Maybe the townsfolk won’t be as kind once I’ve given them what they want. Maybe they’ll start acting more familiar, wielding cutting words and judgment. Maybe they’ll start keeping their children from the gardens, not wanting them around me.

Or maybe that’s my fear talking.

Maybe . . .

I take a breath and press my hands to the soil. I can’t actually feel the steady beat of the earth the way Bogdan says he can, but he also says my impatience is the reason, not the fact that I’m human and flawed. So I wait, and wait, and wait some more. I don’t know if I feel the earth’s heart beating, but I manage to breathe deeply enough that my spiraling thoughts slow to a crawl.

“Maybe,” I whisper, then pause to make sure I’m actually alone. It seems particularly perilous to speak my hope out loud, but I want my words to feel real. “Maybe having a baby won’t change anything for the bad. Maybe all the good things I’ve experienced since coming here are actually true and Rusalka could grow to care for me as much as I care for?.?.?.” I take a deep breath. “As much as I love her.”

The situation still seems impossible, but I tuck that small kernel of hope deep inside me. The sensation feels fragile and strange, but not in a bad way.

That kernel and the soothing experience of weeding the space to prepare for new growth keep the worries at bay through the rest of the day. Mostly.

I don’t see anyone as I walk into the manor house and head upstairs to bathe before dinner. I technically still have my room, but with each night that’s passed without my returning to it, Rusalka’s bedroom starts to feel more like ours. She’s even made space for my newly purchased clothes in her closet.

Washing away the dirt from my day always feels a little bittersweet. The dirt is evidence of how hard I worked, of what progress I made, but it feels so good to have freshly cleaned skin—especially with the decadent lotions Rusalka keeps in the bathroom.

I’m just pulling on one of my favorite dresses—another red and flowing piece that makes me feel part princess and part succubus—when Rusalka walks into the room. The moment they see me, they cross to me and pull me into their arms for a devastating kiss.

It’s over much too quickly, but she only leans back a little instead of releasing me. “You look good enough to eat.”

“You, too,” I manage breathlessly. They’re wearing loose trousers and a fitted sleeveless top that shows off their muscular shoulders in a way that, strangely, makes me want to bite them. Sexually. “How was your day?”

“Long.” Rusalka leans back a little and props her chin on the top of my head. “A pack of hellcats wandered too close to a neighboring village. We do our best not to kill them unnecessarily, but they’re incredibly dangerous, especially when they have kits, which this pack does. The moment the village’s children realize they’re close, they’ll do something foolish, and then we’ll have too much death on our hands.”

“Oh no. That’s terrible.”

“It’s okay. I think we have a plan for relocation that will be successful. It’s just going to require speed and careful handling.” They squeeze me. “How are the gardens?”

“The bright berries are sprouting. Bogdan says it will be months before their fruit even shows up, let alone is ripe enough to pick and eat, but it’s still really exciting.”

Rusalka smiles. “That is. Jitka makes the best bright berry pie I’ve ever had the privilege of eating. We haven’t had any since you’ve arrived because she prefers to make it with fresh bright berry instead of frozen or dried. It’s a life-changing experience.”

“Speaking of life-changing experiences.” I don’t mean to say it. Truly, I don’t. I may have spent all day thinking about the future and existing in the space between fear and hope, but that doesn’t mean I want to ruin this. It’s too late to go back now, though. I clear my throat. “We haven’t talked about the baby in weeks.”

“There is no baby to speak of,” they say gently. “It’s a concept, and barely one at that.”

“Rusalka.”

She sighs and releases me. “I’m enjoying my time with you. I think you’re enjoying your time with me as well.”

I swallow hard. “I am.”

“Then why rush this? We have time.”

How is it possible that I love her all the more because she’s obviously trying to protect me?.?.?. at the expense of her people? I can’t ask her to do that. I won’t. “I want a baby.” I finally say the words I’ve been chewing on for days and days, the truth that was so deep, I was afraid to face it.

“Do you?” They turn away from me. “Or do you just want a purpose?”

The words sting. More than sting. They slice deeply into the heart of me. It hurts so much that I actually gasp. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, little one.”

I should tell them that I want this baby for the sake of having a child so loved that they have nothing to fear. That I want a baby with Rusalka, who will be a full and caring partner no matter what the future between us may bring, who will inspire our child with her fearlessness and confidence.

Except I don’t say that. If I put that fragile fantasy of a future into words and she rejects me, I don’t think I’ll survive it. “I’m trying to help,” I finally whisper.

“Then help yourself!” Rusalka has never raised their voice in my presence. They’ve never come undone with anger the way they are now. “I thought you were happy, Belladonna. I thought we were making progress. I?.?.?.” They run their hands through their short hair. “I need to think. I’m going for a walk.”

My mouth works, but with my throat closing, I don’t get words out before Rusalka is gone. She left me. I shake my head, hard. No, she didn’t leave me. That’s nonsense. That’s my fear talking. She just?.?.?. stormed out in the middle of a conversation that hadn’t even been long enough to be termed an argument. She needed to leave the building entirely because her frustration at me was too overwhelming.

I hate how familiar this feeling of abandonment is. I hate how it instantly shoves me back into a skin I hadn’t even been aware I was shedding. The old urge to hide, to make myself small, is almost overwhelming. I actually start to take off my dress and look for sleeping clothes, mentally trace my path down to the room I haven’t slept in for weeks.

Only to stop short. “What am I doing?” Is Rusalka angry at me?.?.?. or is she angry for me? I don’t know. If there’s a difference, I don’t know how to divine it. Not without asking them. I stare at the door. I have never, not once, pursued a conversation when someone angry at me walked away in a fury. The idea of facing that fear is terrifying on a level I can barely comprehend. But this isn’t my mother, my father, the church community. This isn’t Ruth, who would never yell, but would tell me that she needs time away from me in order to pray away her frustration.

This is Rusalka.

And Rusalka would never hurt me. Not on purpose.

“Fuck this.” I shove open the door and step into the hall.