Chapter 8Henry woke with an unvoiced scream on his lips, though in the next moment he knew he hadn’t woken at all. Knew he lay in Theo’s arms in the too-small bed in the quiet tower, body lax with pleasure and sleep. Knew he was dreaming.
And, despite knowing that, he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t not taste woods and wildflowers and ash, the burnt ruins of a protective circle. The death of his meadow, the death of—
No. He did not look at the body, as it lay in the center of the circle, blackened by flame. He knew the scent of death. He guessed it had been himself, metaphorically: here in this place, in his heart.
“I’m alive,” he said aloud. “I’m alive, and I have Theo.”
The old voices, ever-present, laughed in the wind. Do you?
Henry froze, toes bare in the ash. The sky hung red above, a
