Where The Moon Finds Us

What Fear Cannot Hide

Rowan's words lingered in the ruined chapel, but Mara barely heard them over the sound of her own heartbeat. The opening beneath the altar had stopped widening, leaving the first few steps of the staircase exposed. Cold air continued to rise from below, carrying the smell of damp earth and something older, something that seemed to have remained untouched by the passing years.

She looked toward the entrance, where Etta and Silas were waiting.

"Secure it how?" Mara asked.

Rowan studied the opening, his eyes slowly returning to their familiar storm-gray. "I don't know yet."

She almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Here they were, standing over a passage that had opened in response to her pendant, with something beneath the chapel knocking against the stone, and Rowan had no idea what to do.

For once, she found that reassuring.

At least he was no longer pretending otherwise.

"Then we should stop touching things until we know what they do," she said.

"That would be a sensible change."

"Don't sound so surprised."

He looked at her, and the faintest trace of warmth returned to his expression. It disappeared almost immediately, replaced by the guarded concentration she had come to recognize.

Together, they stepped away from the altar. Rowan crouched beside the opening, examining the edges of the displaced stone without putting his hands near the staircase. Mara watched the passage for another moment, waiting for the three knocks to come again.

They did not.

The silence was somehow worse.

When Rowan rose, she noticed that his attention had shifted toward the chapel entrance. His posture had changed, his shoulders drawing taut beneath his coat.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Nothing."

Mara gave him a pointed look.

He exhaled through his nose. "I can hear Etta and Silas arguing."

"That's hardly unusual."

"They're arguing about whether to come inside."

"And you're trying to decide whether to let them?"

"I'm trying to decide how much trouble I can endure before noon."

She smiled, but his expression remained distant. Whatever he sensed in the woods had not disappeared simply because the passage had stopped moving.

They left the altar and joined the others. Etta immediately began examining the opening, her concern evident in the tightness around her mouth. Silas crouched beside her, studying the carved symbols.

"You opened it," Etta said.

Mara folded her arms. "I seem to have developed a talent for that."

Etta glanced at the pendant resting against her chest. "Your mother was afraid this might happen."

"Did she know the passage would respond to me?"

"She suspected it would. She never knew what would happen after it opened."

"Then what exactly was she preparing me for?"

Etta looked toward Rowan before answering. Mara noticed the exchange and felt her patience begin to fray.

"I would appreciate it if everyone stopped looking at him whenever I ask a question."

Silas stood, brushing dust from his hands. "In fairness, he has an unfortunate habit of knowing things he refuses to explain."

"Thank you, Silas," Rowan said dryly.

"You're welcome."

Etta's expression softened as she turned back to Mara. "Your mother believed the seal was connected to your family. She thought it might recognize you, but she couldn't prove it. Everything she found led to the same place—the chapel, the hill, and whatever was hidden beneath them."

"And she left me to discover it myself."

"She left you a way to find it when the time was right."

Mara glanced at the open passage. "I'm not sure I like the distinction."

"Neither did Elise," Etta said quietly. "But she was trying to give you a choice. She wanted you to have a life before the truth came looking for you."

The words settled uncomfortably in Mara's chest. She had spent years wondering why her mother had disappeared, why Mrs. Wren had never told her the whole story, and why Rowan had appeared as though he had been expecting her all along. She was beginning to understand that the people who had protected her had all been working toward the same goal.

They had simply never agreed on what protection meant.

Silas straightened and looked toward the trees beyond the chapel. "We should move away from the opening while we decide what to do. Whatever is down there has already noticed us."

"Noticed me," Mara corrected.

No one contradicted her.

The admission frightened her more than she wanted to show. Still, beneath the fear was something else—a stubborn determination to stop treating herself as a fragile object that needed to be carried from one hiding place to another.

She had come this far. She would not turn back now.

"I need a moment," she said. "Just a moment without everyone watching me."

Etta looked as though she wanted to object, but Rowan spoke first.

"She can have a moment."

His gaze met Mara's. There was a question in it, a silent offer to accompany her if she wanted him to, but he did not reach for her or insist.

Mara appreciated that more than she expected.

"I'll be just outside," she told them.

She stepped through the broken chapel entrance and followed the narrow strip of grass along the outer wall. The air was colder beneath the trees, and the damp earth gave slightly beneath her boots. She walked until the chapel was partially hidden behind a tangle of ivy and a leaning stone column, far enough away that the others' voices became indistinct.

Then she stopped.

For the first time that morning, she allowed herself to feel afraid.

The passage beneath the altar had opened because she touched it. The pendant had warmed in her hand, the compass had turned toward the marker, and something had answered from beneath the earth. Her mother's letters and Rowan's guarded explanations had led her to believe that she was approaching the truth.

She had not expected the truth to recognize her.

Mara pressed her fingers against the pendant through her coat.

"What did you leave me?" she whispered.

The trees offered no answer.

A twig snapped behind her.

She turned sharply, her heart leaping into her throat.

Rowan stood a few paces away.

For a moment, neither spoke. He had followed her quietly enough that she had not heard his approach, but he kept his distance, his hands resting loosely at his sides.

"I thought you wanted a moment alone," he said.

"I did."

He nodded and began to turn away.

"Rowan."

He stopped.

Mara looked at him, struggling to find the words she wanted. She was angry with him for withholding the truth, frightened by what waited beneath the chapel, and painfully aware of the way her feelings had changed since the night they first met in Wychwood. She could no longer pretend that her attention to him was merely curiosity.

"You always do that," she said.

"Do what?"

"Decide when you're allowed to stay and when you have to leave."

His expression tightened. "I was trying to give you what you asked for."

"I know." She drew a breath. "That's not what I mean."

He turned fully toward her.

Mara had imagined confronting him about the way he avoided difficult conversations. She had rehearsed questions about her mother, the seal, and the strange changes she had seen in his eyes. But standing there with him, with the ruined chapel behind them and the weight of the unknown pressing in from every side, those questions seemed to belong to another conversation.

"What happened back there?" she asked.

"Beneath the altar?"

"No. Between us."

The words escaped before she could reconsider them.

Rowan went very still.

For several seconds, he said nothing. His gaze shifted briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes, and the small movement sent an unexpected rush of warmth through her.

"I don't think this is the right time," he said.

"You keep saying things like that."

"Because they keep being true."

"And when will it be the right time? After we open another mysterious door? After something tries to kill us? Or after you've decided that whatever you're feeling is too dangerous for me to know about?"

His jaw tightened.

"You don't understand what you're asking."

"Then explain it to me."

"I can't."

"Won't," she corrected. "You won't."

Something flickered across his face, a flash of frustration that seemed directed as much at himself as at her.

Mara took a small step closer.

"You told me my mother trusted you to find me. You told me you loved her. You have spent years trying to protect me from something you barely understand yourself, and I have tried to give you room to do that. But I cannot keep standing beside you while you act as though every feeling you have for me is another threat I need to be protected from."

His eyes darkened.

"You think this is about protecting you from my feelings?"

"I think you're afraid of them."

He looked away.

The silence that followed was different from the ones she had grown accustomed to. This was not the silence of a man searching for the safest answer. It was the silence of someone who had been cornered by a truth he could no longer pretend not to see.

When Rowan finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

"When you're near me, I find it difficult to think clearly."

Mara's breath caught, though she tried to hide it behind a skeptical tilt of her head.

"That sounds terribly inconvenient for someone who prides himself on being in control."

"It is."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"No, you're not."

A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. "Not particularly."

For the first time, something in him eased. It was only a fraction, a brief loosening of the tension that held him together, but Mara saw it. She saw the man who had teased her on the road, who had offered his hand on the steep path, who had looked at her as though she were both a comfort and a danger.

And she wanted him to stop running from that.

Rowan stepped closer, then hesitated.

His gaze moved over her face, lingering on the small cut near her temple where she had struck a branch earlier in the week. He lifted his hand slowly enough that she could have stepped away. When she didn't, he brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek and touched the edge of the healing wound with the gentlest pressure.

The tenderness of the gesture hurt more than she expected.

"You should be more careful," he murmured.

Mara gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. "You really have no idea how to talk to me, do you?"

His thumb rested briefly against her cheek.

"No," he admitted. "I don't."

She looked up at him. He was close enough that she could see the faint scar through his eyebrow, the subtle tension around his eyes, and the uncertainty he so rarely allowed anyone to witness.

"Then stop trying to say the right thing," she whispered.

For one suspended moment, Rowan seemed to forget how to breathe.

Then he kissed her.

It happened with a suddenness that stole every prepared thought from Mara's mind. One moment, his hand rested against her cheek; the next, his mouth was on hers, and all the restraint he had maintained between them seemed to break at once.

The kiss was not careful.

It was hungry, almost desperate, carrying the force of everything he had refused to say. His hand moved to the back of her neck, drawing her closer as though some part of him had finally grown tired of resisting. Mara caught the front of his coat, her fingers curling into the dark fabric, and kissed him back without hesitation.

For a few heartbeats, the world narrowed to the warmth of him, the roughness of his breath, and the startling realization that the tension between them had never been imagined.

He wanted her.

The certainty of it sent a rush of emotion through her so powerful that she barely recognized herself within it. She had spent days trying to understand the man who seemed determined to keep her at a distance, and now he was holding her as though the distance had become unbearable.

Mara rose slightly onto her toes, deepening the kiss.

Rowan made a quiet sound against her mouth, something between a sigh and a struggle. His hand tightened at her waist, and for one brief, unguarded moment, she felt him give in completely.

Then he pulled away.

The abruptness left Mara breathless. Rowan stepped back as though he had touched something burning, his chest rising sharply beneath his coat. He dragged a hand through his hair and turned his face away from her.

"No."

Mara stared at him, still trying to catch her breath.

"No?"

"That was wrong."

The words struck harder than she expected.

She lowered her hands, suddenly conscious of the cold air between them. "You kissed me."

"I know what I did."

"Then perhaps you should decide whether you meant it before you start telling me it was a mistake."

He looked at her, and the conflict in his expression was almost painful to witness.

"You don't understand what I am."

"No, I don't. Because you refuse to tell me."

"This is dangerous, Mara."

"Everything about my life has been dangerous since you found me."

His face tightened at that, but she refused to retreat.

"You don't get to kiss me as though you've been fighting yourself for days and then decide I should be grateful you stopped."

"I stopped because I needed to."

"Why?"

He looked away again.

For a moment, she thought he would give her another empty warning, another carefully constructed reason to keep her at arm's length. Instead, he closed his eyes briefly, as though the truth cost him something to admit.

"Because I don't know what happens if I stop holding myself back."

Mara's anger faltered, replaced by a different kind of unease.

"Are you afraid you'll hurt me?"

"Yes."

The answer came without hesitation.

She studied him, searching for the man who had kissed her so fiercely only moments ago. He was still there, but the fear in his eyes had returned, and she could see how desperately he was trying to contain something she did not understand.

"Then tell me what I need to know," she said. "Don't make that decision for me."

"I can't give you everything you want."

"I haven't asked for everything. I've asked you to stop treating me like I'm too fragile to hear the truth."

His gaze returned to hers.

"And if the truth changes how you see me?"

Mara's heart ached at the question. Beneath his guarded expression was something she had glimpsed before but never understood: the fear that if she saw all of him, she would no longer want to stand beside him.

She thought of the golden light in his eyes, the creatures that had retreated from him, and the way he had looked at the passage beneath the chapel as though he feared what it might awaken.

"I can't promise I won't be afraid," she said honestly. "But you don't get to decide that fear will be the only thing I feel."

His expression shifted, and she saw how deeply her words had reached him.

"I shouldn't have kissed you."

Mara swallowed. "Do you regret it?"

He looked at her for a long moment.

"No."

The admission was quiet, almost reluctant, but it was the most honest thing he had said since stepping into the clearing.

Mara felt the answer settle between them, changing something neither of them could easily undo.

"Then don't call it wrong simply because it frightened you."

Rowan's hand flexed at his side. He seemed to want to reach for her again, but he held himself still.

"You don't know what you're asking me to fight."

"Then stop fighting me, too."

Before he could answer, Etta's voice carried from the chapel.

"Mara? Rowan? You need to see this."

Rowan's expression closed almost instantly. The moment between them vanished beneath the weight of whatever waited beyond the chapel walls, though Mara could still feel the imprint of his kiss.

He took a step toward the path.

Then he stopped and looked back at her.

"I meant what I said," he told her. "I don't regret it."

Mara held his gaze.

"Good. Because I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen just to make this easier for you."

For a moment, he looked as though he might say something more. Instead, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

They returned to the chapel together.

The opening beneath the altar had widened while they were gone. A section of the floor had shifted aside, revealing more of the staircase and a series of narrow carvings running along the inner wall. Pale silver light shimmered between the symbols, appearing and disappearing like moonlight reflected on moving water.

Silas stood beside the altar, his usual humor absent. Etta had knelt near the edge of the opening, studying the inscription that had emerged from the stone.

"What happened?" Mara asked.

Etta rose slowly.

"The passage has changed."

Mara approached the altar, keeping a careful distance from the opening. The silver light brightened as she drew near. She could make out the shapes more clearly now: a crescent, three lines, and a series of symbols that seemed to form a sentence.

"I can't read it," she whispered.

"Neither can I," Silas said. "Not entirely."

Rowan came to stand beside her. Their shoulders nearly touched, but neither acknowledged the closeness.

Etta traced the air above the inscription without touching it. "Elise copied this symbol in her notes. She believed it referred to the first keeper."

Mara turned toward her. "The first keeper of what?"

"The seal, perhaps. Or whatever the seal was created to protect."

The pendant warmed again.

Mara drew it from beneath her collar. The silver disk glimmered faintly in her palm, and the crescent engraved upon it seemed to align with the carving beneath the altar.

A new line of light appeared along the stone.

The inscription brightened, and for a brief moment Mara felt the strange pressure she had experienced when the passage first opened. It was not a force pulling her downward this time. It was something closer to recognition, as though the stone had become aware of her presence.

Then the light faded.

Silas stepped back. "I don't like that."

"Neither do I," Etta said.

Mara stared at the opening. "It isn't trying to keep us out."

Rowan looked at her. "What makes you say that?"

"Because every time I come near it, it responds. The passage opens. The symbols change. It isn't reacting to us all. It's reacting to me."

The thought sent a chill through her.

"If this place was meant to keep something imprisoned," she continued, "why would it respond to the person who might open it?"

No one answered.

Mara looked at the inscription again, at the crescent that had followed her from her mother's pendant to the marker in the forest and now into the stone beneath the chapel.

"Unless it was never meant to be a prison."

Rowan's expression became unreadable.

"Elise believed the seal was a warning," he said. "Not a prison."

"Then perhaps the warning wasn't meant to keep people away from whatever is beneath the hill."

"Perhaps it was meant to warn them about what would happen when the right person arrived," Silas murmured.

The words settled over them.

Mara looked down at her pendant. For years, it had been a keepsake, the last tangible piece of her mother that she could carry with her. Now she wondered whether Elise had given it to her for a reason she could not yet comprehend.

She closed her fingers around the silver disk.

"I need to know what she found."

Rowan watched her for a long moment. Whatever he saw in her expression seemed to settle something inside him.

"Then we'll find out," he said.

Mara glanced at him, searching his face for the familiar warning that she should stay behind, that the danger was too great, that he would handle it himself.

It never came.

Instead, Rowan stepped closer to the opening and offered her his hand.

"We go together."

Mara looked at his outstretched hand. She could still feel his kiss, still hear his admission that he didn't regret it. The distance between them had changed, even if neither of them knew what to do with that change.

She placed her hand in his.

His fingers closed around hers, warm and steady.

Behind them, the chapel stood silent beneath the pale afternoon sky. Ahead, the staircase descended into darkness, and the silver symbols along its walls glimmered faintly as though something below had begun to stir.

Mara tightened her grip on Rowan's hand.

Whatever waited beneath the stone, she would meet it with her eyes open.

And this time, Rowan would not face it alone, either.