Aris
ARIS DRYDEN KNEW BETTER THAN TO GET ATTACHED TO A HUMAN. Blink, and
their life would pass before his eyes.
He especially knew how unwise it was to get attached to the woman he’d been forced into a marriage with. And yet his body seemed to gravitate toward her. He always knew precisely which part of the house she was in and found himself making a dozen mental notes whenever he spent time with her. She enjoyed chocolate but didn’t have the taste for anything too sweet. Her brows were always a little furrowed, and her lips would pucker whenever she thought of a particularly witty quip, having to hold in her own laughter. Travel delighted her; she’d spend time anywhere, though she preferred the warmth to the cold. It couldn’t be too warm, though, because then she’d become monstrous and irate, unbearable to deal with. Not that she’d ever admit it.
With each passing day, Blythe felt more and more like a sun and Aris the earth, content to revolve around her every whim. He needed to get to the bottom of the peculiar tapestry and figure out why Chaos had her sights set on Blythe. Instead, he was standing outside of Grey’s with Elijah Hawthorne because that was what she had asked of him.
Who was this person he was becoming?
“I will use all resources to get to the bottom of who’s behind this,” Aris told Elijah as he gingerly stepped over shattered glass. Looking around
Grey’s Gentleman’s Club, he almost wondered whether they should somehow incorporate the shattered glass into the decor. It would certainly liven up the dark leather furniture and dreary walls that gave the place an air of what Aris could only describe as forced masculinity. It was all very stuffy and not what he would have expected from Elijah Hawthorne, who couldn’t have looked less enthused to be there if he tried.
“My brother will appreciate that,” Elijah said, a bitter curve to his lips. “He insists that his son should inherit the place. Were it up to me, I’d have burned it by now.” He plucked a bottle of scotch from a table, saw that the back half was shattered, and tossed it aside with a grimace.
“How is my daughter?” he asked after a while, stomping over the wreckage without sorrow. If anything, Elijah looked more annoyed than he did upset, as if this entire ordeal had cost him nothing but his sanity.
Aris admired that about Elijah Hawthorne: with him, Aris needn’t worry about half-truths or clever words with alternative meanings. He had never much cared for those and was glad he and Elijah could have an honest conversation without all the forced niceties. Or at least as honest as could possibly be.
“She’s why I’m here,” he told the man. “Blythe is unwell, Elijah, though I promise you on everything sacred that I’m doing my best to help her.”
A shadow passed over his father-in-law’s face. He hadn’t needed to be told of Blythe’s condition; he already knew. “Do you care for my daughter, Aris?”
Aris wished it wasn’t so difficult for him to answer such a question. Not because he wasn’t sure of his answer, but because he could not admit the truth without betraying Mila.
“It was not always the case,” he answered after a long while of mulling his words, for Elijah deserved whatever bit of the truth Aris could give. “But I care for your daughter in a way I have not cared for anyone since the death of my late wife.”
The doubt that had creased Elijah’s face smoothed over. “You lost a wife,” he repeated, a familiar heaviness in those words. “I’m very sorry to hear it.”
“I loved her more than anything in this world, as I’m sure you understand. I would have burned everyone and everything down for her. And for a long while, I believed that I would never care for anyone again. I
will not delude you by claiming that my initial union with your daughter was made out of love. But it is my hope that you believe me when I tell you that I care for her now and that I want her to be healthy.”
“That is all well and good,” Elijah said with a quiet ferocity. “But what of Blythe? Would you burn the world for her, as well?”
It was not the question that surprised Aris, but how easily the answer came, the words spilling from his tongue before he realized what he was admitting. “I would.”
Elijah responded by settling a hand upon his shoulder, and Aris had no idea what to do. He might have magicked people into pretending, but the reality was that he’d never had a father before. How strange it was to be treated like a son. And stranger still that he liked it.
“Then I’m glad that she has you,” Elijah told him. “And I’m glad for the truth. My daughter tries too hard to spare my feelings, but I know there is no Verena, even though I saw it with my own eyes. It is not on any map, and I’ve not met a single soul who recognizes the name. When I traveled to meet you, my carriage circled the same peak three times.” Aris fell still, though there was no accusation in Elijah’s words. Only facts.
“Until my Lillian’s death, I was never one to believe in the paranormal,” he continued, fishing a key from his pocket and leading them to Grey’s back office. “Even now, I wonder if it’s only the mind of a sad and grieving man playing tricks on him. But that palace… you are no prince, are you?”
Aris had always known that Blythe was unnervingly clever, and it seemed she’d gotten it from her father. For whatever reason, Aris found that he did not wish to lie to the man whose phantom touch still burned his shoulder. So he answered, “No, I am not,” without the barest hint of hesitation. And to his credit, Elijah nodded.
“Good,” the man said, unwavering as he held Aris’s stare. “Then do whatever you must to save my daughter’s life.”
Elijah did not look at the mess of his desk as he pushed the door open. Instead his focus remained with Aris, who took in the sight of opened ledgers and half-spilled bottles of ink that leaked slowly onto the floor.
“Items from Thorn Grove have been going missing,” he told Aris. “Small things at first. Boots, a teacup… but now the ledgers from my office are gone, as well. I believe that whoever has vandalized Grey’s is the same person who broke into Thorn Grove and the stables.”
Elijah pulled out his leather chair. The cushion was slit through the middle, though he paid the cut no mind as he rested his head back. “Signa Farrow managed to find one of the tunnels leading into the manor within her first month of living at the manor. It stands to reason that someone else has done the same.”
There was another leather armchair across from Elijah, still unscathed, and Aris took a seat. He steepled his fingers, wishing he could pluck Blythe from the situation. He could always take her somewhere far away under the guise of a vacation. He could suggest they have a proper honeymoon this time, away from everything and anyone who could possibly be trying to hurt her or her family.
Not that it would matter. Chaos would find them one way or another, and Blythe’s time left on this earth was dwindling quickly.
Aris ran his hands through his hair, then down his face with a quiet sigh from somewhere deep in his chest. He had to do something, and though Blythe would likely murder him in his sleep if she were to find out, Aris had but one option. He stood, and with far more effort than he would ever admit, he allowed thousands of golden threads to encompass Elijah, effectively freezing the man just as he’d done during his and Blythe’s wedding ceremony.
There were more threads in the room, of course. Millions of them woven into the very fabric of the universe, telling the story of each person who had ever set foot on this ground. One-by-one Aris inspected them, beginning near the door and working his way toward the desk. He slid a finger against one, following its trail with a scrutiny only he could manage. For it was his eyes alone that could decipher any strangeness in the threads, and while all of them were meant to be gold, tiny fibers had changed the coloring of several in particular.
They were silver, just the same as the peculiar tapestry. Just the same as Life. But what did it mean?
He ran a finger over the thread before easing away with a sigh when he saw nothing. He returned to his seat and released Elijah, who stretched his legs.
“I was wrong to try to take Blythe away from Wisteria,” the man said, to which Aris nodded as if he’d been listening astutely all the while. “Something is happening, and I fear she is somehow connected. Keep her
away from Thorn Grove, Aris. Keep her safe.” “You have my word.”
Aris had lost a wife once already, and he would not lose another. He had told Blythe that a person could not change their fate once it was written. But if this was to be his, then he would find a way around that rule.
Even if it meant rewriting fate itself.
 |
Aris did not immediately return to Blythe’s room. Instead, he made his way back to his study and to the peculiar tapestry. He had not been able to scratch its existence from his mind since the night it first appeared. Even now it wove endlessly atop his desk, the silver threads never growing longer. Once, the color would have sent him into a spiral, but there was a wrongness to the cloth. This was not Life, but something new entirely.
It was Signa who had first shown a thread of silver on her tapestry months ago, and yet it was Blythe who had captivated his thoughts so wholly.
From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, Aris had known that Blythe Hawthorne was someone special. For so long he’d tried to ignore the pull he felt toward her, only to find himself falling prey to his own impulses more times than he could count.
At first he had told himself that he needed Blythe close as a way to integrate himself into Signa’s life. But somewhere along the way he’d found himself growing increasingly curious about the girl who had shoved her finger into his chest and told him precisely what she thought of him during their initial introduction. He’d even given in to those impulses on more than one occasion, going as far as to kiss her under the guise of taste- testing for poison, just so he might finally know what her lips tasted like and rid himself of the curiosity.
Signa Farrow was like water—quiet, thoughtful, clever. But Blythe held the passion of fervent flames. She was a fire, all-consuming and never satiated, and Aris could not stop himself from some compulsive need to be burned.
How long had it been since he’d felt such desire for another soul? Another body? This ignorant beast of a girl had consumed his every thought whether it be waking or dreaming, and he couldn’t shake her no matter how hard he’d tried. Blythe was a sponge for the world and all its delights, and day by day Aris found himself craving her.
He wanted her. Her mind, her body, her time. He wanted her. But first, there was something he had to do.
Aris stood beneath Life’s portrait. How many years had he worked on it, painting the canvas over and starting from scratch as he tried to capture her likeness? How long had it been since he’d begun searching for her, unwilling to say goodbye?
He pressed his palm against the canvas, smoothing his thumb down her skin and wishing that he could feel her warmth.
“I’m married again, Mila.” His voice was little more than a puff of air. “I bet you never expected that.”
Oh, how he had loved this woman. He had prayed to any god that might listen to let him find her, if only to see her one last time. His world had grown brighter with Mila as his light, and since the moment he’d lost her Aris had felt as if he’d been wading through the darkness.
He could not continue like this, one foot in this relationship and the other primed to flee. Blythe was the first person who Aris burned for since Mila, and Blythe deserved more. She deserved a proper husband, or at the very least a relationship with a man who wasn’t chasing a ghost.
“One day, I will see you again. In another lifetime, perhaps we shall find each other.” But for now, this was goodbye. The portrait slipped away beneath his touch, disappearing until he was left grasping only bare stone.
Mila was gone.
Aris didn’t allow himself to linger or give way to the emotion swelling in his throat. He stalked into his study and toward the tapestry whose song grated against his ears with a new resoluteness. He took hold of a pair of shears from his desk and dragged it across the cloth, determined to see its ruin. The threads tore in half, only to begin restitching themselves seconds later, as good as new. He tried to tear it. To feed it to a fire that tossed soot back at his face. To slice it in half and then feed it to the fire in hopes of incinerating the fabric before it had a chance to restitch itself. At one point he thought he’d done it until he turned to see the pristine tapestry lying on
his desk once more.
He groaned, knowing he’d have to get more creative if he was to best this beast. But Blythe was waiting just down the hall, and she took priority. He could tamper with the tapestry once she was asleep.
He made his way toward the study door, about to open it when he stilled. Glancing up, he saw that several of the tapestries were frosted in a thin layer of ice. The chill seeped through the room, filling Aris with such rage that he pressed forward, intent to ignore his brother.
“I have no desire to speak with you,” Aris spat.
“You have no choice.” There was once a time when Death’s voice had not raised the hair along his neck or put a pit of hostility in Aris’s stomach. There was a time when he had viewed the man behind him as no less than a brother and had filled his hours prattling on endlessly at Death’s side. But now the hairs along his neck did rise, because Aris knew that, yet again, Death had his sights set on his wife. It would be Death’s hand that took Blythe from this earth unless Aris did something to stop it.
“Blythe is gone,” Death said, and for a moment Aris felt nothing. He did not breathe. Body numbed as the world began to fog around his vision until suddenly Signa was there. She smacked Death on the shoulder, slipping around his shadows.
“You’re going to give him a heart attack,” she spat before turning to Aris. “Blythe isn’t dead. She’s just… gone.”
It was alarming the way his heart kicked back to life. The breath knocked back into him and he looked away, fisting his hands so that neither would see how they trembled.
“How can she be gone?” he demanded, relying on his anger to fuel him so that fear would not get the better of his mind.
“That’s just it,” Signa began, sounding winded. “I haven’t the faintest clue. I thought I saw her downstairs, but when I tried to follow her through the door—”
“She left through the door?” Aris nearly lost his balance. He turned fully toward the two, gripping the edge of the nearest table to steady himself.
Signa blinked those strange eyes of hers. “Yes. But I couldn’t find her anywhere outside—”
“The front door?” Aris clarified. “This was the front door, down near the parlor?”
“Do you have another front door?” Signa snapped. “When she opened it, I thought I saw—”
“Little Bird.” Death’s shadows slipped first around her feet, then upward to cover Signa’s mouth. “Be quiet.”
Death did not see the glare she cast him, for he looked only at Aris, whose knees were so close to giving out that only his brother’s shadows held him upright.
He had wondered all this time how Blythe had managed to escape to Thorn Grove prior to the Christmas ball. He had wondered why the burn of their rings had calmed, for it had always felt as though they’d been trying to tell them something. To steer them toward each other.
Their rings were bound by the threads of fate. And Aris finally understood why.
At once the room of his felt impossibly small as he stumbled past the others and toward the tapestries.
It wasn’t possible. For weeks prior to their marriage he’d studied Blythe’s tapestry, wishing to incinerate it. To hunt down every clue and piece of information he could garner to use against her. But like the peculiar new tapestry on his desk, hers had still been weaving itself, continuing onward without any regard for him. Aris had given up on watching the tapestry once it became apparent that there was nothing to learn from it, and he hadn’t looked back since. Not until now.
He focused every bit of his attention on the tapestries, listening to their songs. Sorting through them in his mind until he heard a sound unlike any other. One so lovely that it could belong to no instrument but to a choir of angels who had blessed his ears alone. Aris pushed everything aside as he hunted for it, digging through row upon row until he came toward the back. If he hadn’t recognized the hideously bruised tapestry behind it as Signa Farrow’s, then Aris would not have recognized whose tapestry the sound belonged to, for it did not look as it had those short months ago.
Blythe’s tapestry no longer resembled the keys of a piano. It no longer swept to the floor, weaving an endless story for itself. Instead, it was like the one on his desk: a single color that had Aris dropping to his knees. He reached for it with fingers that would never be gentle enough, eyes hot as he drew it from its line.
The threads were as silver as the stars, and they drew a cry from his lips
as he folded against the tapestry and hugged it to his body with great desperation.
“It cannot be,” he whispered against the fabric, over and over again until he felt Death’s chill against his back. “After all this time, it cannot be true.”
“But it is,” his brother whispered. “She is here.” The words shot through Aris like a pistol.
It was rare, but sometimes when the lives of two people were so intertwined, the color of one tapestry would bleed onto the other. Now that he saw the truth laid bare before him, Aris wondered how he ever could have believed that Signa Farrow was the woman he’d been searching for. Life’s tapestry was the most breathtaking that he had ever laid eyes on, and he knew without a sliver of a doubt who it belonged to.
The woman he had not stopped thinking about. The one his very skin burned for.
His wife.
His wife. There before him all this time. What a fool he’d been not to see it before.
Never again would she hurt because of him. Never again would she hurt at all if he could help it. For he knew better than anyone that second chances did not come often, and Aris would sooner die than allow this one to slip by.
After all this time, Life had found him. Blythe had found him.
With great care he hung the tapestry, looking between it and the band of light on his ring finger. Distantly, he could feel the shape of Blythe’s presence. They could not communicate in their minds like Death and Signa, but Aris wondered now whether it was her soul that he felt pulsing on the other end of the ring. That’s what they were, after all—two souls infinitely bound. Only hers wasn’t burning quite so hot as it once had.
“What was it that you saw, Signa?” There was a new firmness to his voice. A resolve that Aris had not felt in centuries.
“You’re not going to believe it,” she whispered, stepping forward. “But it looked like Thorn Grove on the other side of that door.” When she reached for his hands, Aris did not pull away.
“I do believe you,” he told her. “And we must hurry.”
Blythe had told him on the day of their marriage that the carriage had taken her to Thorn Grove’s garden. One more glance at the tapestry that had
troubled his mind for weeks, and Aris understood whose song grated against him.
This time, his wife needn’t die. This time, Aris knew how to save her.
