CHAPTER NINETEEN
As Tarquin stalked along the city streets, he hated himself. He tried not to think of the sweet kiss Mira had left on the corner of his mouth, despite the fact that he could still feel it there. He tried not to think of the way her breathing had evened and slowed the night before, and the way she’d melted against him in her sleep, and the way that he’d held her to him and whispered his love into her hair when he was sure she was asleep. He tried not to think of those things because they all made him seethe with anger at himself.
Mira couldn’t be his, as much as he liked that thought, and he couldn’t be hers, because his mate was dead and waited for him on the other side. He’d thought that he’d been able to put it behind him until Mira had pulled his head down and pressed her lips against his ear and whispered to him, in an action that was identical to something Aurelia had done thousands of times. He’d wanted to kiss Mira, and he’d wanted shove her back and curse her for her cruelty. It wasn’t her fault, she hadn’t known and couldn’t have possibly done it on purpose, but the sweet tug on the back of his head had pulled him right back there— right back to the day of her death, and the last thing she’d ever whispered to him.
And then Mira had smiled at him, her lovely, increasingly frequent smile, but all he could think of was Aurelia’s joy as she’d whispered it, and his sorrow and horror only a few hours later. He’d held Mira all night and wished away his past, and then felt monstrous for even contemplating that. He was the only remaining connection to Aurelia— and to the tiny life she’d only just discovered she had carried.
And every time Mira allowed his touch, and he thought to himself that maybe he could move on and be happy again, he had to remind himself that he was Aurelia’s, because by remaining hers he kept her in this world, in some small way. She’d taken half of him to the grave, so he owed it to her to keep half of her here. He felt as if he were being torn between this world and the next, and some days it seemed like it would be so much easier to just give up and slip into the next with his mate.
The worst part of it was that the day before, when he’d seen Mira watch the city in a way that he’d never seen her do anything before, he’d thought that that was it, that he was in love, and there couldn’t possibly be a more thorough betrayal of his mate than that.
He was so distracted that he almost missed where he was going, in one of the decidedly more dangerous parts of Amling. He’d been here before, as a younger man, to a place that you could spend a night with a woman if you were charming enough, or if you had enough money. Tarquin had never been charming.
It was a sleepy establishment by day, and the man he was supposed to meet with information about his brothers was nowhere to be seen, so he ordered a drink and sat by the fire, which helped somewhat to heat the drafty building. He tapped his fingers on the table in impatience, eager to have company beyond his torturous, loathing thoughts.
Two drinks later, a man strode directly to his table. Tarquin could smell that he was a shifter, and there was something familiar in his face, but his overgrown beard and the tattoos covering nearly every inch of visible skin would have been something Tarquin would have remembered.
“You have news,” Tarquin said as the man sat.
The bearded man watched him for a moment. “It’s nice to see you again, Tarquin,” he said. “I killed your brother.”
It didn’t last. Mira had known it wouldn’t, but she’d been so desperate to believe that this time it could, that this time he could love her, that she ignored all of the reasons why he never would.
He’d been… sweet with her, that next morning, but after that everything had gone to hell. Because at breakfast he sat away from her, and had a far off look in his eyes. He’d been gone the rest of the day and after he’d returned, he hadn’t even pretended that things were different now.
Each time he avoided looking at her or touching her or speaking to her at all, she’d felt her fragile happiness crumble under her feet. Each time he left a room as soon as she entered, she found herself enraged, at him and his stupid mate and most of all at herself. Because she had known that it would go this way, and she’d ignored it, and now that she was totally and completely his, he didn’t want her.
It didn’t make her sad, she just felt pissed off. So after several days of being avoided, after several days of him being absent entirely from their shared room— she had no idea where he was sleeping, and she didn’t really care— after several days of being something to be ashamed of, she left the house early one morning, before the sun was up.
He hadn’t wanted her in the city on her own, had worried that she’d get lost or harassed, which made her enjoy it even more, just to spite him. She’d bundled herself thoroughly, because from her window she could see a glittering layer of frost covering the world. She glared at her stupid gloves, the ones he’d found for her, but pulled them on anyway.
It was early enough that the city was still quiet. She had a vague feeling that she was in an entirely different world, and not just because of the small group of winged women she’d passed quietly. There was no hum of conversation, no din of loud work, just quiet and peace and a sense that she could blend in here, that no one knew she didn’t belong.
She found a bakery that was open, so she sat at a tiny table tucked next to the window and drank tea while picking at a pastry.
She considered Amling as she looked out the window into the city. She liked it there— much more than the palace, and infinitely more than her family’s little farmhouse. She could do anything there, be anyone. As she watched the large variety of beings pass by the window outside, more and more as the sun crested over the horizon, she began to invent histories for the particularly interesting ones. Before long she found that she was inventing a history for herself. She was lost in the possibilities, in the chance that she didn’t have to be just Mira. How hard would it be, she wondered, to disappear here? She could find work; she’d seen half a dozen shops asking for help on her short walk already. She could rent a room, stay here, and be happy.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an angry infant, and she turned to glance at the counter, where she saw the backs of a couple, severely mismatched in height. The man towered over everyone, really, and she wondered vaguely if he was a shifter. The woman was short, especially next to the man, and a river of silver flowed down her back.
“Laurent,” Mira heard the woman coo, “it’s alright, sweet boy. You’ll be eating in a moment.”
She bounced the child that Mira couldn’t yet see, and then turned in a circle to soothe him—
“Annie?” Mira found herself exclaiming, hardly believing that she could actually be in the same place as the woman she’d known, so briefly, at Dragongrove.
It must have been Annie, though, because she whirled around wildly, searching for the source of her name.
Mira waved slightly, her hand tentatively in the air.
The silver haired woman swept across the room to her little table, her red haired son on her hip. “Mira?” she breathed. “You are last person I expected to see here.”
Mira smiled pleasantly. “I was just thinking that.” She gestured to the empty chair across from her.
“What are you doing here?” Annie asked, sitting down. Mira didn’t miss the way that Augustus watched her warily, as he stood next to the counter.
“Having breakfast,” she said, then smiled vaguely at her own stupid joke. “I came along with Tarquin, trying to figure out some… thing that he’s said very little about.”
“Tarquin?” asked Annie. “Are you and he…?”
Mira shook her head. “No. I was just… bored. He invited me along.”
“I see.” She bounced little Laurent on her knee after he let out another bored shriek. “Well, I’m sure we’ll need to see him. Where are you staying?”
“With a man called Cyrus,” she said, “he has a ridiculous compound just east of the city. Tarquin’s been largely absent lately, though, so it might be a day or two before I can tell him you’re here.”
“I’m sure Aug can find him, now that we know he’s here.” She studied Mira for a moment. “You look awful,” she said with the frankness that had attracted Mira to her in the first place. “What’s been going on with you?”
“I had a late night,” Mira shrugged. “I’ve been living at the palace. It’s… monotonous.”
Annie laughed, then launched into a detailed explanation of everywhere they’d been and everything they’d seen over the last nine months. They’d been dispatched by the king to find the missing twins, and the latest whispers they’d heard had sent them to Amling. Augustus had pulled a chair over and brought breakfast for his wife and son; the former picked at hers daintily and the latter chewed his into a gummy mess, dropping big pieces on his father’s lap. Mira tried not to let her nose wrinkle as she watched.
They said goodbye after they’d eaten, promising to find her within the day at Cyrus’s house. Annie hugged her with a fierceness that contrasted with their short friendship and long separation, and Mira was almost embarrassed by how much the affectionate embrace comforted her.
Mira had spent a quiet day in Amling and returned to the house shortly before dinner. She stayed in the little bakery until it became busy and she felt guilty for taking up one of the few tables, so she’d bundled herself up and faced the elements again. She’d stumbled across a small bookshop nearby and wandered inside, absurdly nervous about looking for anything for herself.
She’d perused the children’s book section and found a few stories that she intended to buy. It was humiliating, barely being able to read something meant for a young child. It was also frustrating that her reading was improving, slowly, but her writing had seen no improvement after she’d mastered the letters.
She’d decided to be brave and ask the shopkeeper if there was anything to practice learning to write, and the old man had smiled kindly at her and asked how old her children were.
“It’s not for a child,” she’d replied stiffly, and he’d looked sympathetic. She hated it, but he’d been kind and helpful and found some journals for her.
She’d had a lunch that was similar to her breakfast: leisurely, lovely, lonely. After that she’d just walked, down streets and alleys and even across a massive park, where winged beings were swooping through the skies above.
When her face was thoroughly numb, she’d decided to return to the house, weary but pleased with her day.
She didn’t expect to see Tarquin there, since it had been nearly a week since she’d seen him for longer than a minute or two. She certainly didn’t expect to find him in her bedroom, as she’d come to think of it since he’d mysteriously arranged lodging elsewhere.
He was sprawled across the bed, though, fast asleep, and her first instinct was to turn and leave. She was halfway back out the door when she heard her name, and she swore at herself for entering so noisily.
She whirled around and dropped her bag of books with a thud. He was sitting up in bed, watching her. “What?” she asked flatly.
“You got a letter,” he said, gesturing to the small desk in the corner. “Where were you?”
She was sure the loathing that was rolling off of her in waves showed plainly on her face, so she just looked at him for a minute. “Augustus is in town,” she said. “He wants to see you.”
He blinked at that, but seemed to dismiss it. “I’m sorry Mira,” he said, “I didn’t—”
She interrupted him with a laugh. “I’m really not in the fucking mood to be apologized to.”
“Okay,” he said quietly. “It was a mistake. That day. I shouldn’t have… been that way with you.”
She sighed and looked at him for a long time, her happiness from her day thoroughly washed away. “I really thought we were past this part, Tarquin.”
“What part?” he asked, rising from the bed defensively. “I have a past. Of course I do. It’s not like you weren’t running around Dragongrove fucking anyone who would look twice at you. You practically begged me to the first time you saw me.”
She stepped back, anger coiling in her gut. “The self loathing part. I don’t give a fuck that you have a past— I was just delusional to be hopeful that your future wouldn’t always be consumed with it.” Her voice lowered.
She was almost surprised when he didn’t look angry, and instead just looked… tired. “She was my mate, Mira. I’ll never be over her.”
“That’s not what I mean,” she said, trying to be patient but failing. “I don’t want you to be over her— you shouldn’t be over her. But you don’t need to live your entire life feeling guilty anytime you’re remotely happy just because she’s not here.”
“You act like you’re so sure I’m happy when I’m with you, but—”
“Oh, fuck off with that,” she hissed. “I’m not stupid, Tarquin, we were both happy that day. Do you have any idea how cheap it makes me feel when spending time with me is something you’re ashamed of? When I’d just had a day that was maybe the best day I’ve ever had, and you regret it? I appreciate that you love her, I appreciate that you miss her, but I don’t appreciate the fact that my feelings matter less than the imaginary feelings of a dead woman.” She paused when she felt her voice wavering.
He was just staring at her, and his inaction made her angry— so angry that he wouldn’t just grab her and kiss her and apologize to her.
“I didn’t kill Aurelia, Tarquin. I’m sorry that you’ve been running from it for eight years and I just happen to be here when you finally have to confront it, but it’s not my fault.”
“You don’t understand,” he started.
“I understand that I don’t understand, thanks,” she spat, “you’ve told me a million fucking times. That’s all you’ll ever tell me. But I know more than you think, Tarquin. I’ve talked to everyone that I could about her. And they tell me she was perfect, and she was lovely, and she was sweet, and most of all that she loved you. So would you please stop making yourself miserable on her behalf and try living your life since that’s what she would want for you?”
His eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what she would want.”
“I do know,” Mira groaned in exasperation as she jammed her finger to her chest, “because I love you too, and despite that, if I were somehow able to bring her back to life I would do it without a second thought. I want you to be happy. I don’t care if you’re happy with me or happy alone or happy with someone else, but I don’t want you to hate yourself anytime you feel anything remotely resembling happiness. Stop saving up all of your daily moments of not missing her to confess to her later. She doesn’t care, Tarquin, she’s dead.”
He had stilled, looking down at her with an expression she couldn’t place. “You love me?”
She flushed. “That’s not the fucking point, Tarquin,” she said, then turned and stalked to the door. “And just for the record, the first time I ever fucked anyone was in your bedroom with your dead mate staring at me,” she hissed, then slammed the door behind her as she darted away down the hall.