Page 64 of Inked in Bloom
“The distance doesn’t matter so much as the love it’s made of,” Taylor says before I can. Her perceptiveness goes far beyond her ten-year-old frame. It’s slightly terrifying.
“That’s exactly right.”
Her chest puffs up at my praise, and I can’t help but smile. She’s read the story hundreds of times, both with me and to her sisters. It’s disorienting for young Blooms coming to Florezca. The children’s book didn’t exist when I was little, but the idea of vines that could reachanywhereis something I wish I’d grown up with. While I may be the one lucky enough to raise these girls, it’s not lost on me that both here and on the other side of the veil is a community of boundless love eternally connected to them.
“Well, whoever it is, they’re lucky. Any vine connected to you is made of love from the biggest heart, Daddy,” Millie chimes in.
“Thank you, Millie,” She throws her arms around me for a hug. I wheeze in her tight grasp. “It sure is.”
Monroe doesn’t want it, but that vine exists—seeded between us and rooted in devotion.
Once we’re inside and the girls begin the procession of washing away the dirt and grime of the day, I glance at the clock to figure out who I can ask to come over and watchthem. Grabbing a slip of paper and plucking a rose from the vase on my dresser, I jot down a quick note and wrinkle my nose, sending it off on the breeze.
Ten minutes and the quickest shower of my life later, my parents let themselves in, and I zip out the door, hopping on my bike. That wriggle from earlier sinks deeper. Hissing, I press my foot on the gas.
Soothe your mate,every instinct shouts, spurring me on.
“Not mine,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
While all mates can reach each other with a simple palm to our sternum, I’ve restrained myself since I found Monroe inked in our mate mark. I could’ve been there already, but that runs the risk of revealing too much and scaring her off. She’s adamant that she doesn’t want to know who her mate is—who I am to her—and I refuse to be the reason she feels trapped in her afterlife. I want her to be happy, even if that’s not with me. But if she knew I parked outside The Fluffle, shifted to dart across the fields leading to her cottage, and conveniently nudged a ladder around the corner so it would reach her window, she would not be happy. She’d be irate.
Well, more irate than she already is.
I purse my lips and climb the rungs up toward Monroe’s windowsill, peering through the pane. The moment I see her, the bond settles, and that twisting pain recedes into the background. It’s only her, standing at her desk, adjusting the shades of purple of her foxgloves. Some frustration sifts within our connection, but nothing alarming. When she selects a vivid lavender, nearly the exact shade reflected back at me in the window, I shudder.
It’s just a coincidence.
I know better than to believe she intentionally chose it.
Squinting, I inspect her eyes for any tear tracks downher cheeks. Her shoulders aren’t pinched and her spine is relaxed. I’m about to breathe out a sigh, relieved I made it in time before the effects of the unnurtured bond took root in her, but choke on it instead, my attention snagging on the sheen of fresh paint streaked across a set of plates. I suppose I’m glad she has an outlet, despite it being something she reserves for when she’s especially frustrated and angry—even if it’s a seemingly pleasant one.
What did I miss?
I lift my palm, hovering it over the glass, wishing I could comfort her in some real way. Doing the only thing I can think of, I twitch my nose, and Monroe’s head snaps left, to the water burbling against the tub.
The smile that radiates from her replaces the lingering ache in my chest. Not wanting to get caught outside her window, I hop off the ladder, shifting as I do, and scamper back to my bike. With eachthudof my paws against soil, relaxation grows along our connection. Though it’s not the way I’d always envisioned taking care of my mate, there’s solace in this small act.
Content that I’ve settled the bond,at least for the time being, I swing my leg over my bike and head home to make dinner.
NOVEMBER
26
MONROE
Week by week my magic becomes more consistent. When I get stuck, I refer to what Briar taught me about magic being an energy flow, using exercises to unblock my emotional resonance. Each session together feels like walking a tightrope I’m guaranteed to fall from, but I still show up. I always thought I was in control because I could rationalize what I felt, but that wasn’t experiencing the emotion or processing it. Turns out even in death I’m a work in progress.
But I choose to see it as an asset. Being a work in progress leaves room for growth.
Formagic.
Before our last day of classes, we arrive bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to find out our assignments for spring in the mortal world.
Cherri leans over and taps me on the shoulder. “Have you decided if you’re going to the claiming ceremony tomorrow?”
“I have.” I place a hand over hers, giving it a squeeze. “As much as I want to be there to support Roxy and Kendrick, I think it’s better I skip it.”
Since we haven’t been out delivering spring, we won’t go into solstice ourselves, but the possibility of running intoBriar and Corrigan is enough to keep me away. Though I’ve spotted them together a few times around City Center, I try to ignore them. I’ve avoided The Warren since the night at The Velveteen Rose on the off chance I’ll run into them or Tom.
