Rowan looked down, a pained expression on his face. “I was a part of it, yes. I shackled her to the pyre. But, Juliet—you don’t understand.”
Juliet backed away from him and he grabbed her arm, stopping her. She hadn’t feared Rowan until this moment, but now that she did she couldn’t help but notice how strong he was and how quickly he could move. She straightened her back to look up in his eyes.
“What was it? Some kind of Satan worshipping?” she asked breathlessly. Surprisingly, he laughed and let go of her arm immediately.
“Magic has nothing to do with any of that nonsense. It’s about power, and fire is how your sister gains power. I burned Lily because she asked me to,” he said simply.
Juliet stared at him, trying to find a lie in his eyes, but she couldn’t. “I don’t know what to believe, Rowan.” She suddenly smiled, all the tension and fear gone, and shook her head. “Sometimes it feels like I know you.”
“There’s a version of you who does,” he said, and went back to Lily’s side, leaving her to mull over the disturbing notion that there were other Juliets out there somewhere.
*
Lily smelled snow and cedar smoke. She heard logs popping in a fire. She opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor in her living room, back in Salem, Massachusetts. All the windows were open and a fire was going in the hearth. Rowan sat beside a huge cast-iron cauldron that was suspended over the flames. The soot and blood that had covered him had been washed away—soot and blood from the battle against Lillian, Lily remembered. Lily hoped that her army had fled and that Alaric, Tristan, and Caleb had gotten safely away with the scientists.
She took a deep breath in and let a deep breath out. Steam billowed from between her lips. The room was sub-zero. Rowan’s head spun around at the sound, and he scooted across the floor toward her when he saw that she was awake. She reached out to him and saw that her hands and arms were wound in bandages. A square of black silk was stretched out beneath her and strange symbols, drawn in salt, surrounded her. Silver knives were arrayed around her in a pattern—their lustrous blades flashing brightly in the firelight.
No, don’t move! Your skin is too fragile, Rowan said in mindspeak.
He was wearing a thick wool sweater against the cold. Peeking out from the bottom of the sleeves and above the cowl neck were bandages. Lily could see the thin pink color of watery blood starting to seep through the wrappings on his hands.
You’re hurt …
I’m getting better. So are you. Rest now, Lily.
Lily let her eyes close and kept them closed. Maybe a second, maybe forever passed as she floated on her raft of pain. She heard arguments swirling above her like a cloud. People danced in and out of her fever dreams. More often than not, she felt Lillian joining her on the raft—but only when Rowan left her side. Lily could feel Lillian waiting for Rowan to go and then she’d move closer to Lily through the Mist, asking for shelter on her raft. Lily let her come. She needed someone there with her in the dark.
Time passed. The pain started to itch around the edges. Lily heard her father’s voice. Demanding. Impatient. She heard her mother’s voice. Pleading. Desperate.
“James, I told you because I believe you have the right to know that your daughter is alive,” Samantha was saying in a shaky voice, “but I only let you come and see her on the condition that you allow me to care for her as I see fit.”