One of the Woven outside began to throw itself against the entrance, trying to ram it down. The thuds of its body against the door and the sound of its frustrated wails boomed through the little cabin. Rowan picked his knife off the floor and stowed it in the sheath at his belt. He threw the rest of the spare wood onto the fire, sending sparks flying up the chimney in a plume of ash and smoke. The creatures on the roof squealed as if the sudden upwelling of heat had burned them.
“Sit here,” he said, placing Lily on the hearthstones right in front of the roaring flames. He pulled off his linen shirt. His bare skin picked up the light of the fire and seemed to blaze like copper.
He looked down at Lily, the wails of the Woven bearing down on them from all sides. Lily saw him clench his hands into fists, squeezing his eyes shut tightly for a moment. Then he shook out his hands and puffed his breath like he was preparing to plunge into icy water. He knelt in front of Lily, leaning close to her. His eyes were wide and bright with terror.
“Touch my willstone,” he said, taking her hand and raising it to his throat. His voice dropped to a whisper, almost like he was praying. “And please don’t hurt me.”
Lily looked at Rowan’s willstone, dancing with inner light, and felt as if she were falling toward it. Her panic disappeared. The cacophony silenced. The whole world cupped itself around the one, gorgeous point hanging from Rowan’s bared throat.
She’d meant to touch his stone gently, hardly brushing it with a feather-soft caress, but before she could control herself, her hand shot out greedily and grabbed it.
Mine.
Rowan gasped and shook as if she’d strummed an open nerve, his eyes rolling back in his head.
“Lily, please,” he begged, his voice high and breathy.
She wanted to swallow his stone, or squeeze it so tightly it ground into her skin and buried itself in between her bones. She heard Rowan moan. She was hurting him. She forced herself to relax her grip until the stone rested lightly in her palm. It was warm and it pulsed, like a living, beating part of Rowan.
“So beautiful,” Lily said, and sighed. Her breath blew over the stone and Rowan shivered.
“Look into it. Find my stone’s rhythm.” He stopped and panted. “Find my pat—”
Lily could feel his willstone pulsing in her palm. The lights rippled like waves and flashed like particles at the same time. Lily felt a vibration all through her—one particular frequency that felt like a single, rich note played on her body as if she were an instrument. She memorized it and locked its copy away inside her. It was the rhythm of Rowan’s mind inside this particular stone. She played that rhythm back to his stone and the room around her changed.
It was suddenly daytime. There were no Woven charging through the door. It was quiet. She heard Rowan’s voice in her head but she knew instinctively he wasn’t talking to her. He seemed to be simply thinking his own thoughts. He was so young—just a little boy—and so scared. Lily realized with a jolt that she was inside one of Rowan’s memories, reliving it from his perspective. She saw …
… A man with dark eyes. Dad. His normally tanned skin is green with sickness. He’s lying on one of the cots in the cabin. He smiles. He doesn’t know his gums are bleeding. He is trying to encourage me, but I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. The bite wound stinks of rot. We need time to let the pus drain, but the jars of preserves won’t last forever. I know I’ll have to go out, out into the Woven Woods to hunt, or we’ll starve.
No more of that.
… A pillow. Silky, strawberry curls spilling toward my face. I run my hand up her naked back, feeling the knobs of her spine and her bird-like rib cage. My hand is dark and big against her skin. She inhales, waking, and reaches for me under the covers. My body responds. I roll on top of her, my face in her white neck, her hips arching up to meet mine.
Don’t. That’s private.
… The courtyard inside the Citadel is muddy and the sky is the dark silver color of unfallen snow. The smell of vomit and piss is everywhere. A gallows—one noose hanging, waiting.
Stop!
… Tristan, young, maybe eleven, and a blond-haired boy are laughing like crazy. The three of us have had such a long day that laughter is the only way to blow off the enormous pressure we’re under. But even now, I feel a little removed from Tristan and Gideon. Lillian favors me. The poor Outlander. The drub. It galls the two city-bred boys, especially Gideon. I want to feel closer to these two who are tied to me like brothers, my stone kin, but I want Lillian’s attention more. She’s still too young—I’m still too young—but I already know that I’m in love with her.
Lily. Enough.
… Tristan. He is visiting me in the hospital, lounging at the end of my bed with his shoes kicked off. I swear that guy could find a way to lounge in a torture chamber. I’m inside a plastic tent, which is a sort of torture chamber, for me anyway. It’s meant to keep me in a sterile environment, but I’m cheating. I’m sticking my hands out of the bottom so I can play cards with Tristan. Not that I ever win. Whenever we play cards, I spend most of the time staring at him instead of my hand. Tristan always comes to visit me in the hospital. That means he loves me at least a little bit, right?
Wait, Rowan. That’s my memory.
… Samantha is walking in circles, talking to herself in the produce section of Star Market. Everyone is staring. I look at Juliet. Her face is bright red and she’s fighting back humiliated tears. I go to get Mom, hoping that she doesn’t start screaming this time. I can handle a lot, even the strung-out way she looks in public, but I can’t handle it when my mom screams.
Rowan, cut it out.
… Tristan kissing me. I put my hands under his shirt and run them over his bare chest, feeling the smooth skin and firm muscles, down to his belly.
No.
… Tristan fumbling into his clothes in the dim bathroom. Miranda behind him. Is it shock or sadness or anger I feel? I can’t believe how much this hurts.
No, Rowan.