CHAPTER 165

CHAPTER 165
The storm arrived at dawn.

Not thunder, something other. A shift in the pressure which stirred the butler just after dawn, pressing at the windows, groaning through the boards. He went through the cabin as a man going through a church, double-locking the doors, sprinkling the thresholds with salt, muttering the old words to himself.

Emerald did not sleep.

She sat beside the fire, knees wrapped in her arms, watching flames reflected in her palms.

The symbols never faded.

If anything, they'd become fiercer. no longer black but glowing, feeble and pulsating, as living things beneath her skin. She'd tried to scrub them off, tried to dip her hands in meltwater, even wrapped them in charcoal-soaked bandages. but the symbols only contorted closer, sprawling over each other in the manner of overgrowth around an embedded heart in the ground.

The butler noiselessly entered.

"You've had them before," he said, getting down beside her. "Not like this, though."

She did not look at him. "No."

The tree said nothing to me.

Her gaze was distant. "A grave."

Whose

"I don't know." She stood in front of the fire. "Joel buried it."

His hands were clenched on his knees. "He has done a lot to secure this home. To secure you."

Don't word it as excusing him.

He hesitated. "Then what do you believe he's concealing?"

Emerald stared into the flames.

That I already died once.

The butler flinched

She sat up slowly, the flickering firelight casting sharp shadows on her features. "The only thing that makes any sense. The dreams. Reappearing in the petals. Being told by Lena that I was  chosen,  not born." She faced him now, and something chill stirred to life in the back of her eyes. "Did he bring me back?"

His throat tightened. "No."

She waited.

He answered quietly, "Not in the manner you're thinking."

How, then?

The butler stood to his feet. "There's a reason the old lines were persecuted. It wasn't for power. It was to live. They had. doors. Not magic. Not curses. Doors. things which made the world shift. Some shut things in. Others opened things which were meant to be buried."

She slowly nodded. "And it's yours?"

His words faded to a whisper. "Maybe yours was sealed too late."

Emerald looked away.

The wind howled outside. Salt on the window sill was beginning to crack.

She went over to the window and pushed the curtain aside a bit. Snow again fell. quietly, gently. But the trees were not immobile.

"They are watching again," she whispered.

The butler cast her a glance. "We must protect the garden."

"It's too late," she answered. "I've already touched it. I've already seen it. It's awakened."

He opened his mouth, and immediately shut it again. He'd seen what happened when old things stirred. You can salt the doors and burn the scrolls and mark the lines with care. and yet, they filtered through. Sometimes not with fangs. But with whispers.

He turned away and began to pack the satchel with the herbs, flint, pocket knife, and the onyx bead necklace Joel had carelessly discarded. "We'll take care of the cabin," he said. "At least until Joel returns."

Emerald never responded.

He glanced back over his shoulder. "He is coming back, you know."

I don't believe it matters.

The butler's fingers hesitated.

"He lied to me," she continued, barely speaking above a whisper. "Not just about Lena. About the council. About the marks. About who I am. And the worst part is, I think he actually believes he's doing it to protect me."

He said nothing.

Emerald put her coat on again.

"I am returning," she said.

He faced her. "Now?"

"There's something under the tree." She was too calm to her liking. "I must see it again."

He stood in the doorway. "No. If you turn back now, it'll finish what it began."

She looked at him, her eyes sharp. "Then I will know what that is."

It's not a risk worth taking.

Emerald gritted her teeth. "If you will not let me go. then guard the house.  And burn the tree if I do not come back by sunset."

He gazed at her. "That's a death sentence."

"For whom?" she panted. "Me, or it?"

The question seemed to linger in the air, pulsating like her hands. He stepped aside.