opened and closed, swallowing the princess whole.
24
Garin
Forget Eden, I would bite the apple
if the colors of my lover were not there to furnish paradise
All the sweetest fruits would wither and rot
after I had tasted her plum-tinted lips
Even the bruises she collects
bloom tiny lilacs across her knees
And rainbows were not conceived
until her amethyst eyes glimmered in the sun to refract them.
Her body laid bare
shows pale flesh that pools over her hips
as if the morning sky had been folded and tucked against her form
So give me shame
Give me pain
Give me the curse of growing old
As long as you will give me her colors.
-Lilith, by Maya Caulfield
After watching for another minute, still unable to hear anything, the vampire tethered the grazing mare to a log buried halfway in the mud. Then, he sat on it.
The princess stirred in him the same contradictory twist of hunger and desire that he’d long ago felt for Adelaide. Stronger, even. But if he’d followed Lilac into the hut, he would’ve been tempted to ask Ophelia if she knew of Adelaide’s whereabouts; the witch community was especially tight-knit, and he assumed they at least knew of each other. To what end his digging might lead, he didn’t know. At all costs, he wished to avoid doing or discovering anything that would jeopardize what he had with Lilac.
And he’d lied. Nothing was more frightening than knowing he’d fallen for the human princess.
Almost nothing.
Groaning inwardly, he plucked a cat tail grown too heavy for its stalk and dunked it headfirst into the water, watching the ripples extend above the murkiness.
He’d spent countless nights wondering if the constellations would one day align, allowing his and Adelaide’s paths to cross. She would be in her mid to late seventies now. A small part of him hoped she might reveal herself to him, wherever she was in the world; he imagined their reunion—cradling her nimble, weathered hands in his eternally sturdy ones. He imagined explaining everything while they wept together—Adelaide for her long-dead family, and Garin for every ounce of destruction and pain he’d caused her.
On his darker days, when his hope would wane, he would pray that her absence wasn’t a sign that she was no longer alive, but rather, an indication that she simply harbored hate for him so strong that it surpassed any sliver of ardency left.
He was well aware he didn’t deserve her mercy. Perhaps she would keep her promise and kill him if he dared hunt her down—a notion that hadn’t exactly bothered him… before he’d met Lilac. Despite all he had done, what plagued his imagination for close to two centuries was the possibility that the woman he once loved, who had loved him back, might never forgive him.
That notion was the most terrifying of them all.
25
Upon entering, a cloud of musk and spice overwhelmed Lilac. The interior of the witch’s hut looked more an overstocked tea shop or a poorly organized herbal apothecary than a place of magic.
Behind a weathered oak desk against the wall sat a woman who paid the princess no mind. Absently tossing her long, black tresses over her shoulder, the witch remained fixated on a piece of parchment. It obscured most of her face as she held it against the firelight. Black painted nails on the opposite hand drummed impatiently against the wood.
Refusing to appear as intimidated as she felt, Lilac gritted her teeth and made her way to the upholstered chair in front of the desk. She had to turn sideways to maneuver between several short shelves, which housed an array of jars with things suspended in green liquid. Holding her breath as she passed, she tried her hardest not to peek at what they might exactly contain. Past the shelves, a dozen cloth-lined wicker baskets were strewn about upon a bearskin rug, each filled with a variety of mushrooms peeking out of their tops. Between a basket crammed with the sponged heads of black morels and another of scrumptiously creamy bulbs, a basket of the brilliant red mushrooms caught her eye.
“My fungi collection is off-limits, thank you very much.”
Jumping at the sound of her voice, Lilac hastily took a seat opposite the witch.
Without lifting her gaze, the woman muttered at the piece of paper while tracing over it with her pointer finger. The material of her black shawl shone iridescently as she moved her arms in the firelight.
“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” she murmured. Her Parisian accent was thick as molasses. “If those imbecile Parliamentarians across the channel want to