The Beauty of Darkness (The Remnant Chronicles 3)

“I thought he’d come,” she whispered. “Against all reason. I knew he couldn’t. He shouldn’t even, but I still found myself looking over my shoulder, thinking he would change his mind. We loved each other. We made vows. We swore that kingdoms and conspiracies wouldn’t come between us—but they did.”

“Tell me everything from the beginning. Tell me the way I told you about Mikael.”

We talked for hours. She told me things she hadn’t shared before, the moment she first realized who he really was, the tense minutes before they crossed into Venda, the note he had carried in his vest all those months, the way she’d had to pretend to loathe him when all she wanted was to hold him, his promise for a new beginning, the way his voice kept her pinned to this world when she felt herself slipping into another—and then their bitter argument on parting.

“When I left him behind, I marked every day between us by writing his last words to me in the soil—it’s for the best—until I finally believed them to be true. Then I found my wedding dress where he had hidden it in the loft at the inn, and it tore everything loose inside of me all over again. How many times do I have to let go, Pauline?”

I looked at her, unsure how to answer. Even after everything Mikael had done, every day I had to let go again. He was a habit in my thoughts, not any more welcome than a rash, but I’d find myself thinking of him before I even realized what I was doing. Banishing him from my thoughts was like learning to breathe in a new way. It was a conscious effort.

“I don’t know, Lia,” I had answered her. “But however long it takes, I will be here for you.”

I sat back and looked at the crate. The wood was smooth and sturdy. I stood and hung it from the porch rafter to dry. Yes, Kaden is right. Once a soft blanket is added, it will be quite passable.

A scream splits the air.

The pachegos have capt

ured something,

The children cry,

The darkness too deep,

Their stomachs too empty,

The howls of the pachego too close.

Shhh, I whisper.

Tell them a story, Jafir pleads.

Tell them a story of Before.

But Before was never mine to know.

I search my memory for Ama’s words.

The hope. The journey’s end.

And I desperately add my own words to them.

Gather close children,

And I will tell you a story of Before.

Before the world was brown and barren,

When it was still a spinning blue jewel,

And sparkling towers touched the stars.

The scavengers around me scoff.

But not Jafir.

He is as starved for a story as the children.

—The Lost Words of Morrighan