Part 21 (1/2)

”What do I do?”

”Just read me the names of the plants,” he says. ”And I'll tell you their indications.”

I flip it open to the first page. ”Hawthorn.”

”Crataegus laevigata.” He pulls himself up onto the counter across from me. ”Parts used: leaves, flowers, fruit. Improves shortness of breath, fatigue, and chest pain. No known precautions.”

I turn the page. ”Skullcap.”

”Scutellaria lateriflora. Leaves, stems, flowers. Used to relieve anxiety, insomnia, nervous tension.” A muscle in his jaw clenches. ”Known precautions: May cause drowsiness, and when combined with germander; may cause toxicity.”

”Goldenrod.”

On we go. Page after page, herb after flower, plant after root. Eventually, John's posture begins to droop, his eyes begin to close. His voice grows softer, deep and hypnotic.

I flip the page one more time, and what I see makes me smile.

”Jasmine.”

His eyes fly open. They find mine and they hold them, so full of longing my breath catches in my throat.

”Parsonsia capsularis. Parts used: petals and stems. As a tincture for abrasions, a compress for headaches and fevers.”

He slides off the counter then. Steps in front of me. Takes a strand of my hair, coils it around his finger, tucks it behind my ear.

”Precautions: May cause rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing, nervous stomach.”

Being this close to him I finally see-really see-what the stigma has done to him: the toll the fight against it has taken. The sleepless nights in the redness of his eyes. The worry in the dark shadows beneath them. His face, shaven though not carefully, a quick swipe with a razor to say it's done but not with much care. His s.h.i.+rt, too clean and too unwrinkled to be of his doing.

In that moment he lets his guard down: He places his hands on the counter on either side of me, leans forward, rests his head on my shoulder. He's still, so still, as if he expects me to pull away, to tell him no. I feel the sweep of his lashes on my cheeks as he closes his eyes, the weight of his chest as he takes a breath and lets it out, a slow, long exhalation.

There are different kinds of strength, I know this now. The kind that wields swords and slays monsters but there's another kind, too; one that comes in quiet but in the end is stronger and harder and more powerful: the kind that comes from inside. For all the time I've needed him, I never understood the extent to which he needed me, too.

I slip a hand into his hair, thread my fingers around his curls. Lean forward, brush my lips against his, soft. I linger there a moment, my lips on his, but he doesn't kiss me back. He's gone still, and I know he's thinking if he moves, breathes, speaks, anything, this spell will be broken and I will be gone.

But I keep going.

I'm pressed against him now, and I can feel his heart hammering beneath his s.h.i.+rt, the tension in his arms as he grips the edge of the counter. My lips move back to his, then away again, feather-light, across his cheek to his ear, then down his neck. I flick my eyes to his just for a moment, just long enough to see them close.

”You don't know what you're doing.” His voice is a whisper, a breath against my skin. Not an admonishment: a warning.

I allow myself a smile, just a small one, my lips curving into the warm, spicy skin on his neck, kissing it once, twice, before slowly trailing my way back to his ear only to whisper: ”Yes, I do.”

He yanks me toward him then, one hand in my hair, the other gripping my waist before sliding me off the counter and onto his hips. I let out a little gasp of surprise and then his lips are finally, fiercely, on mine. I'm breathless, but he's not through. He kisses me again, still. My feet slip to the floor; we stumble away from the counter.

It's him who pushes me against the door; it's me who pulls him through. It's him who yanks off my coat; it's me who takes off his. It's him who slips off my tunic; it's me who unfastens one b.u.t.ton on his s.h.i.+rt, then another, before sliding it off his shoulders. It's him who pushes me into the room with the small bed in the corner, me who pulls him on top of it, wrinkling the smooth, carefully made sheets.

When the only thing left between us is a question, he pulls away from me, as far as I'll let him, enough to look me in the eye and say without saying it: Are you sure?

It's not enough to say yes. It's not enough to answer not with words but with a kiss. I do both of them but I do something else, too: I say it. After feeling it for so long, I finally find the courage to say it.

”I love you.”

He twitches the blanket over us both, then he kisses me.

And the walls come down.

I WAKE TO THE FEEL of John's hands in my hair, running the ends of it through his fingers. I crack open an eye to find him watching me, his eyes half closed and half asleep, but the smile on his face wide-awake.

”What time is it?”

He rolls to his back, lifts his head up, and glances out the window by the door. ”I'd say around seven or so.”

”Oh.” I think a moment. ”That's later than I thought. We'll have to come up with some excuse why we were gone all day. Maybe we can say we ate in town.”

John rolls over to face me, his grin now a smirk. ”Seven in the morning.”

I let out a gasp; he starts laughing.

”I'm in so much trouble,” I groan.

”You are,” he agrees. ”You'll be was.h.i.+ng dishes for a week.”

”Just so you know, I'm blaming it all on you.”

”You can blame me for whatever you want, any time you want.” He grins again. ”Even so, I suppose we should get back. My father will be frantic.” He pauses, considering. ”Although if he's figured out you're with me, frantic probably isn't the right word.”

We collect our things and step from the back door of the apothecary, John locking it behind him, then thread through the alley into the cobblestoned main street. It's gray and early still, the air cool and calm. It was quiet yesterday, too, but today it feels almost abandoned. The doors to all the shops are closed tight, the windows shuttered, no one to be seen at all.

”Do you think something happened?” I whisper. No one is around, but it seems important to whisper.

”I don't know.” He releases my hand, moves down the street. Tries the door for the cobbler, lifting the shoe-shaped bra.s.s knocker and letting it fall once, twice. Next he tries the bakery, the fishmonger, the bookseller, then the tavern, aptly named the Shaven Crown. Knocks on their locked doors, waits for them to be opened.

They don't.

”I don't like this,” I say. But there's nothing not to like. No sounds of an attack, no screaming, or smoke, or horses whinnying. No stomping of boots or clas.h.i.+ng of swords. No copper-scented wind, the smell of fresh blood hanging in the air.

”Let's go.” John is by my side again. ”If something's happened, someone at Rochester will know.”

We make our way past the apothecary again and the rest of the empty storefronts. We're nearly to the end when a man appears around a corner, rus.h.i.+ng past as if he were being chased.

”Ho!” He throws up a spear, a shoddy-looking thing, the rusty rough-hewn arrow broken from its shaft and lashed onto a k.n.o.bby stick by a piece of leather. His eyes go wide when he sees John, and he lowers his weapon immediately.

”John Raleigh. What're you doing here? And you?” The man looks at me. ”Our troops came through here and rounded everyone up last night, took us into Rochester whether we like it or not.” By his scowl it's clear he doesn't. ”Blackwell's men got in again.”

”What happened?” John demands. ”Was anyone hurt?”

”Don't know.” The man shrugs. ”It's chaos. Rumor is people have gone missing, but it's hard to say who just yet. They're doing a head count now.”

John and I exchange a rapid glance.