Tattoo of Crimson by Sarah Chislon

Author:Sarah Chislon [Chislon, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Chapter 20

The rim of the sky had only just tinted pink, and already I buried myself in the gardens, weeding, trimming, and deadheading flowers. The dewdrops shimmered like jewels, drawing forth the vibrancy of the varied shades of green. Not a single voice nor clatter of carriage over stone broke the silence. And on so quiet a morning, I might almost believe the events of the night before a troubled dream, were it not for the lingering tug of the gash in my side.

A night of deep sleep had worked wonders, and much of the pain of my encounter with the ghouls had faded. When I’d examined the injury to my side this morning, I’d found it nearly healed. What precisely had Riven done when he’d touched me? The legends of fae held they could heal swiftly . . . however, it seemed more prudent not to inquire, but to simply accept the small victory.

As I took relief in the fact that Father appeared to emerge from the glamour unscathed. At a word from Riven, he’d roused, though a fog had hung over his thoughts through the carriage ride home. He’d appeared under the impression that he’d toured the house with me and found everything in perfect order. Time and again, he’d repeated a few simple phrases about how all was well at Wyncourt, as though the words had taken on a life of their own within his mind.

By the time we’d arrived home and I’d served him a strong cup of black tea, he’d seemed back to his ordinary self, speaking of complex star theory with ease. The only lingering effect appeared to be some sort of veil hanging over his recall of the evening.

However distressing, the events of the night before had borne fruit. I no longer held any doubt Riven spoke the truth about the nature of the killer, not given the mounting evidence in support of his claims, but that meant I couldn’t seek this killer in the way most comfortable—by research and analysis alone. I required connections to the Otherworld, which meant a return to Riven and Wyncourt as swiftly as possible.

I skimmed my fingers across sprightly stalks of chamomile, and their soft fragrance swirled through the air around me, an invitation to peace my soul refused to embrace. For my fae-touch ran up against the edges of its bounds time and again. With each touch of leaf or blossom, a snatch of song wove its way through my defenses.

If I had any sense, I’d flee the gardens, yet I found I could not. The melodies drew me irresistibly, and only out-of-doors did the restless ache inside still.

I couldn’t help but recall a snippet from the history of the Vigil: Many crave a return to the Otherworld, though it be the cause of their doom.

I could only hope I’d not share the end of the others so afflicted. A tiny weed poked its head among the chamomile, and I uprooted it. If only I could find some confirmation that I didn’t embrace false hope .

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