BLYTHE HUNCHED TOWARD THE WANING CANDLELIGHT, READING over the still-
damp ink three times before sealing the letters with wax. The one she’d written to her father wasn’t her greatest work, but she was anxious to hear from him and prayed that her words would offer enough of the truth to quell his worries. Elijah was a clever man, though, and she worried over how little information she had available to share with him. It wasn’t as though anything of interest was happening within the dreary walls of Wisteria. Blythe was tired of being perpetually cold and eternally bored. In fact, her greatest thrill from the past several days as a married woman was prying at the edges of her imagination to write the letter to her father, and being as dramatic as she craved while writing Signa’s.
She was glad, at least, that Verena wasn’t a real place, for her father would never be able to look it up on a map and learn of her deceit.
Blythe stretched from her seat, fingers curled around the crinkled envelopes. It was an hour meant for slumber, yet one would never know that from the moonlight that spilled in from her window. She’d tried to sleep, though the hovel that was her suite kept her coughing at all hours. When she wasn’t consumed by a spell, her mind was too thick with visions of the faceless man whose presence made her chest ache. And when she did not think of him, she thought instead of Life’s chambers. Of the forest glade and the vanity at which Life would have sat, brushing her silver hair.
She never should have taken the mirror off that vanity. The thing was so ancient that it was one too-tight grip away from snapping in half, so she’d swaddled it in satin and enclosed it within the safety of a drawer she hoped
Aris would never have any reason to search.
She kept the sealed letters clutched to her chest with one hand as she took hold of her candle with the other. If sleep was useless, then she might as well figure out how to send her messages. Aris would likely try to read them, yet he was her only option. While she’d heard signs of his presence every now and then, he’d kept his distance. She’d checked her serpentine ring several times to ensure that the band of light was still beneath it, for the blasted thing had not burned once despite how he’d spent the past several days gallivanting off to God knows where. He was gone whenever she’d searched for him, returning in time to leave dinner at her door and disappear before she could open it.
Blythe had tried not to give this habit of his any thought, for it angered her to know that he was off doing whatever it was that people with mystical powers did while she was forced to spend her days with a hearth that wheezed as much as she did, and a maniacal fox who had soiled one of her favorite gowns and kept stealing her stockings like it was a game. At this rate, she had half a mind to skin the beast and use it as a blanket, which she told the fox every time she had the opportunity. It was a shame the beast was so cute.
It was impossible not to wonder about Aris, though. Especially when Blythe had nothing better to do than spend her waking hours puzzling over the mystery that was her husband. He’d looked like an entirely different person in the portraits—so much softer and kinder as he danced atop moss and burnished leaves with a silver-haired beauty.
And it was even more impossible not to think about him when he’d left a pastry at her door several hours prior—a sticky, honey-flavored mound of perfectly cooked dough that wasn’t too sweet. It was still warm by the time she bit into it, and while Blythe was initially startled by Aris’s random display of kindness, she quickly realized that he wasn’t being kind at all. Rather, he wanted to make it abundantly clear that he was off somewhere magical while she was stuck in a stone dungeon, hoping that he would take pity on her and bring her his crumbs.
Though it seemed unlikely that Aris was home, she planned to leave the letters somewhere he could find them. If she didn’t get one sent to her father soon, she had no doubt that Elijah would hunt her down himself, even all the way to the imaginary kingdom of Verena. As much as she’d like
to see him, the idea of Aris and her father mingling formed a knot in her stomach.
She was grateful for the glow of the candlelight to guide her through the stony halls as she wandered down the steps and toward the parlor where Aris often took his tea by the forever-burning hearth. While she planned to leave the letters for him on the tea table, she was surprised to find that Aris was not off gallivanting at all. Rather, he sat in one of the high-backed leather seats, a half-empty glass of bourbon beside him. The sight stuttered Blythe’s heart. She blew out her candle, lungs squeezing as she leaned around the corner to spy on him.
Perhaps it was the hour that had Aris so disheveled. He looked every bit like a man who’d tossed around in bed, his head bent in exhaustion. All the same, if she looked at him in precisely the right light, Aris reminded her of a fairy-tale prince, with fitted pants and a loose white tunic that was unbuttoned at the collar and rolled up his forearms. His hair was mussed, and the veins in his forearms were pronounced as he took a swig from his glass. His chair was positioned close enough to the hearth that he’d kicked up his boots to warm himself.
Upon his lap was a tapestry. It was similar to the golden one that Blythe had spilled her blood onto all those months ago, but far larger and decorated with an impossibility of colors she’d never seen. Between Aris’s fingers glinted a silver needle that moved with such swiftness Blythe wouldn’t have been able to see it if not for the way it shone in the fire’s glow.
It was wrong to say that Aris looked relaxed—his movements were manic and precise—but he did look peaceful, if inhuman. His chest hardly rose or fell, every part of him still with the exception of his sewing arm. One could not look at him and see anything but the paranormal as he wove colors across his canvas, each stitch like the strike of a blade.
What began as a standard tapestry soon waterfalled down his lap, pouring over his knees and piling onto the wood floor, lengthening until the threads turned black and Aris stilled. Only then did his lips part with the first softened breath he’d taken in minutes. Blythe very much wished to be able to see his eyes as he roused, for it seemed that his mind had been somewhere else entirely. Silence stretched as she contemplated her escape, feeling as though she was intruding on something private, before Aris’s whisper came as quiet as snowfall, “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
His voice was dazed and hollow, as if she’d awakened him from a dream.
“It’s too cold to sleep.” It was a strange thing, to match his softness. Never had they spoken so simply to each other. “I fear that if I do, I may never wake up.”
Aris made a strange sound in the back of his throat. A laugh, possibly? “Perhaps that was by design.”
“I have no doubt that it was.” Blythe’s nightgown trailed behind her as she tried to get a better look at the tapestry Aris held in a white-knuckled grip. “What is it that you’re working on?”
He loosened his hold, eyes bleary as he ran a hand down the length of his jaw. “What do you think it is?”
Blythe didn’t need to think. Despite her question, she knew exactly what Aris wove. Still, it felt like too much of an impossibility to acknowledge aloud. Rather than answer, she asked, “Do the colors mean something?”
Aris peered down at the tapestry as if seeing it for the first time, his thumb skimming the threads. Tension knitted his brows; whether he’d found something in the design that he was unsatisfied with or whether he was debating the merits of answering her was impossible to say. At first, it seemed he was keen to ignore her. But just as Blythe drew a step back and contemplated returning to her suite he said, “Each color is an emotion. Together they tell a story, because that’s all that a life really is—a series of feelings and emotions that draw a person toward action or inaction.”
What a horribly clinical definition.
“And what emotions do these represent?” She took a seat on the arm of his chair, peering down at butter-soft yellows and greens as bright as moss that transitioned into what reminded Blythe of a sunset—rich pinks and plums that darkened into a shade she had no name for, but that looked the color of a summer sky before a storm.
While the tightness between Aris’s brows remained, he must have been able to sense that Blythe’s curiosity was genuine, for he did not shoo her away and instead angled the tapestry to allow her a better view.
“Every emotion under the sun,” he said. “The possibilities are limitless, and though there is an endless variety of colors, each hue represents something particular to some degree. But as no two people will ever feel anything the exact same, no two tapestries will ever look identical.”
Blythe bent to inspect his work, scanning it for any patterns. Though Aris drew away from her nearness, she could still see that the stitching was flawless, not a single thread frayed.
“There’s a lot of blue,” she noted, admiring the many variants—from a shade as pale as dawn to one as dark as ripened berries.
“There is.” Aris’s fingers once again curled around the cloth. “The man this tapestry belongs to will lead a content life. Nothing special, though he’ll live well into his years and will die at peace.”
By the monotone of Aris’s voice, one might think that he was telling her this man would suffer a great curse and die in a tragic accident.
“You speak as though that isn’t an admirable achievement in itself,” Blythe said. “Is it so wrong to have a simple life that makes you happy?”
Having been drawn in by the tapestry, Blythe hadn’t realized how close she was to Aris until she turned to face him, seeing that his head was against the back of the seat, eyes hardened as they scrutinized her. “I never said there was anything wrong with it.”
“You didn’t,” she agreed, fully aware of how his breath grazed her cheek and of how her nightgown was tangled around her ankles. “You just said it like you were delivering bad news and couldn’t possibly look more uninterested if you tried.”
His golden eyes were as searing as the sun. Though Blythe hadn’t intended to, it seemed she’d struck a nerve and couldn’t help but pry at its edges.
“Do you even remember the name of the person whose fate you just crafted?” she pressed, despite knowing that she was more than toeing her way into tumultuous waters.
“It’s ridiculous to expect me to remember such a thing. I’ve woven more tapestries than you could fathom.”
“Ridiculous to remember a name?” Blythe laughed, pleased when he continued to lean away. “You foretold his fate only minutes ago, and already you’ve forgotten him.” She kept a close look on Aris’s face, ensuring that he looked sufficiently annoyed—but not so much so that he’d turn her away—before continuing. “Admit it, you were bored by that man’s life.”
“Of course I was.” Every inch that Aris sat up was an inch Blythe leaned back. “Human lives are inherently boring. People are born, they learn, they
love, and then they die, always. I should not be condemned for wishing something would break the monotony of a story I’ve read infinite times before.”
There was a crinkle of annoyance at the corners of his eyes that Blythe found somehow familiar. This entire conversation was.
“I understand wanting something that excites you,” she told Aris, thinking of her father’s maps and the many places she’d hoped to one day venture. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t respect the other stories, too. Building a life that makes you happy is nothing to dismiss.”
Aris ignored her as he melted back in his seat, becoming one with the chair. Though Blythe knew the safest thing to do would be to ease away from the conversation and leave him be, she could not stop the question that poured from her. “May I watch you weave another?”
“Are you going to have opinions about that one, too?”
“It’s likely.” She smoothed out her skirts, brushing the hem away from her bare feet. “I have an opinion about most things.”
“Yes, I’m beginning to understand that.” Though it took a long moment for him to rouse, eventually the tapestry on Aris’s lap disappeared in a slant of light and a fresh cloth took its place. The moment his fingers skimmed its edges, shadows sharpened the hard planes of his face. Needle between his fingers, he hesitated before his canvas. His eyes flickered toward her, then back to the tapestry, and with a soft breath he struck the needle down. Instantaneously, the colors began to pour.
Blythe dropped to her knees beside him, leaning over the arm of the chair for a closer vantage. She was hypnotized by the dance of his needle, by the flashes of silver that poured color faster than she could keep up with. Watching Aris was like watching the most extraordinary performance, and Blythe hung on every deft twist of his fingers. It took her a long while to notice that this tapestry was nowhere near as bright as the previous, woven primarily in shades of gray and deep plums that faded into black. Whereas the former tapestry had stretched onto the floor, this one barely reached Aris’s lap.
Blythe understood the bleakness that made his face gaunt. Understood his hesitation as he trailed a gentle finger down the final black stitch.
She set a hand atop his shoulder. “Can you not change it?” While she’d tried to keep anything that resembled accusation from her voice, Aris’s
shoulders tensed all the same. He clenched the needle tighter.
“Can I isn’t the question. It’s a matter of should I.” Blythe drew her hand away at the bite of his words. “Not everyone gets to grow old. Not everyone gets to love or be loved in return. Sometimes the world is cruel.”
“But they should get those things. And if it’s as simple as a few threads on a tapestry, then why not?”
“Just as Death does not choose when people die, I do not choose how they live,” Aris argued. “I write their story as it’s shown to me, and that is the way of things. It matters not if someone is cruel or kind. It makes no difference whether they deserve the life that they get. Once a soul tells me its story, I do not alter it. I do not embellish. I give it the fate I foresee, nothing more, nothing less.”
“And that fate can never change from how it was foretold?” she asked. “Are you saying there’s nothing a person could ever do to make a difference in their tapestry?”
For a long while Aris answered with only his glare, for they both knew the truth of it—Blythe had changed her own fate not once, but several times. Whatever story he’d woven for her, she had defied.
“You are an anomaly, aided by Death’s hand.” Though there was much more that Blythe wanted to ask, the shadows across Aris’s face had moved to hollow out his eyes. “Other lives were taken so that yours could continue.”
Cold sweats raked over her as Blythe thought of Percy. She wrapped her hands around herself, so deep in her haze of thoughts that she barely realized the hearth was no longer struggling. It fed off of Aris’s intensity, drawing sweat upon her brow. She leaned back, fearful of breaking whatever strange spell was allowing them to have a relatively civil night.
Aris scrutinized her as if waiting for Blythe to stand and see herself out. Instead, a question brewed, and though it seemed most comfortable concealed in the depths of her mind, she forced it out before the opportunity was lost. “What does my tapestry look like?”
Aris disappeared the second tapestry from his lap, elbows propped on his knees as he leaned down to her level.
“Your tapestry,” he began, the words soft at first, though each one grew progressively more biting, “is one of the most hideous abominations I have ever seen.”
Though they were no strangers to finding ways to get under each other’s skin, Blythe got the distinct impression that Aris’s answer was honest, and she felt a certain pride at his utter distaste for the thing. If he hated it, then it was undoubtedly spectacular.
She tried to laugh, but managed hardly a sound before a fit of coughing overtook her.
Aris’s frown cleaved deep into his face as he recoiled. “Cover your mouth, you mongrel.”
“I am covering my mouth,” she snapped. “What do you want me to do, magically cure a cold? It’s the fault of you and your dusty, arctic torture chamber”—Blythe broke off to cough again, then continued sharply—“that I’m falling ill in the first place!”
He drummed his fingers along the side of his chair, and as if deciding that he had nothing more to say on the matter, Aris dropped his attention to the letters that Blythe had forgotten she was carrying.
“What are those?” he asked.
Blythe clutched them to her chest, thumb pressing down on one of the wax seals. “They’re letters.”
“I can see that. Why are there two of them?”
She fought the urge to chew her lip, not wanting to draw suspicion to the fact that one of her letters practically begged Signa to come and break her free from this place. “One for my father, and another for Signa. Surely I’m not forbidden from speaking to my cousin?”
Just the mention of Signa’s name seemed to settle an infinite amount of weight upon Aris. “I hope that you’ve told her to come to her senses and trade places with you?” He held his hand out, and though it took a great deal of nerve, Blythe dropped the letters into his waiting palm. She half expected him to tear the envelopes open. Instead, the parchment winked out of sight the moment it touched his hand.
Her surprise must have shown, for Aris cast a tired frown. “I have more self-respect than to degrade myself by reading your private letters. As curious as I am about what you have to say on the topic of our extravagant honeymoon and all the fun we’re having, I’ll use my imagination like any civil person would.”
Were she in his position, Blythe had to admit that she would have allowed her nosiness to get the best of her. She supposed she should be
grateful that Aris had more tact, as infuriating as that truth was.
“They’ll receive your letters in this afternoon’s post.” He pushed from his seat, unrolling his sleeves as he turned his back to Blythe and made his way down the hall. “Go and take your disease-ridden self to bed.”
It took everything in Blythe’s power to bite her tongue as Aris strolled away. She used the hearth to relight her candle, silently cursing the brute as she made the trek back to her room. After a cursory scowl at her ridiculous boar handle, she threw the door open.
Only this time, the room was not bathed in silver light. It was shrouded in such darkness that Blythe wouldn’t have been able to see so much as a foot ahead of her if not for the candle. And was it her imagination, or was the room warmer, too?
Blythe stretched the candle before her, spotting the source of the darkness at once.
Curtains. Finally, the brute had given her curtains.
