Death of the Dawn (The Spires of Dawn Book 1) by Amanda V. King

Author:Amanda V. King [King, Amanda V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amanda V. King
Published: 2022-04-25T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The anticipation of the Harvest Festival breathed new life into Myrtle Gully.

The promise of food, music and dancing permeated the air, lightening it until everyone was practically bouncing in their boots. Traders were already arriving, early in the week as it was, selling masks decorated with antlers and horns and butterfly wings. This festival was the last thing Myrtle Gully had to look forward to in the coming months; the celebration that softened the inevitable blow of winter.

The villagers were happy and therefore nicer, actually greeting me instead of acting like I carried the plague. Even little Paul didn’t avert his eyes when he came to collect an infusion for his father. I should have been excited. The Harvest Festival was my favourite celebration of the year.

But I wasn’t excited.

I was on the Dawn damned warpath.

Ripping and tearing and splitting—I was going to annihilate the weeds that had the gall to take up residence in my herb garden.

“Stupid weeds,” I said, hurling another plant carcass into the bucket. Next to it, Balthazar watched me, unbothered. “I will crush you and your stupid children and your stupid grandchildren, just like I did your stupid parents.”

Evidently, I was working through some issues.

Issues like Ansel.

It had been three days since I’d scurried away from the castle like a sad, earthbound crow trying to protect its hoarded treasures—treasures that were in this case my last vestiges of pride.

I tore a weed to pieces. The feel of it shredding beneath my hands made everything marginally better.

There I was, trying to maintain the status quo and keep chaos from raining down upon us, but what did he go and do? Ruined the peace, that was what. Ruined the peace and made things awkward for me, because I cringed in pure, self-esteem crushing awkwardness whenever I thought of it. Thought of him. Thought of everything.

“The night suits you,” I mimicked under my breath. “Oh, and is that a blush I see?” I snorted. “As if.” I ripped another weed out of the ground, groaning when I accidentally uprooted the struggling mint plant wedged to its side.

Yet another thing to be annoyed at Ansel for, I thought, though somewhere deep, deep down, I knew I was being petty.

The mint plant was wilting. All the herbs, particularly the ones usually cared for by Markus, were dying, missing their real carer as much as I was. I could use a good inspirational smack up the head right about now.

The day was growing late. A bell chimed from the front of the building and brought with it the sound of Hugo farewelling the last patient of the day.

I breathed in the scent of earth and sweat, the fragrance of mint. The soil was hard and dry from neglect. I hadn’t given it a proper watering in days, and knowing Hugo, he’d forgotten watering plants was a necessary component in gardening, opposite of a green thumb that he was.

Sighing, I got to my feet before pulling my gloves off and throwing them to the ground.

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