Page 71 of Strange Grace
“Damn it,” Arthur says, and helps Rhun up, running with him, away from Mairwen.
They crash off, limping and tripping, and Mairwen says, “Baeddan, show me the most beautiful place in your forest.”
“You imagine beauty in a place like this?” His voice is grating and low.
“You’re beautiful.”
Baeddan’s eyes catch moonlight, revealing stars in them: endless light, cold and distant. But like the stars, they make her long to be nearer.
He growls, and she feels it under her palms.
The devil moves so quickly she gasps. He’s a dozen paces away, crouched, glaring at her. “You’re tearing me apart. The forest whispers one thing, you whisper another, and I want—I want to listen to you. But the forest is my devil. The forest is all I am. It is my bones and heart and... How can I listen to you?”
“I love the Devil’s Forest,” Mairwen confesses. “If it is your bones, I love your bones. If it is your heart, I—I love your heart.”
“Witch!” he cries, and runs back to her, takes her hand, and pulls her with him. They dash through the forest, and the forest bends out of their way. Trees lean aside, branches curl into an arched corridor, roots withdraw and sink into the earth to clear the path. Mairwen’s boots fly over the ground, her heart beats fast as sparrow wings, and the devil holding her hand laughs brightly.
He takes her to a grove of silver trees, naked to the sky, reaching slender branches up and up. There is no scatter of leaves on the forest floor, no ungainly roots, no underbrush. It is empty except for slender white vines, looping lazily among the trees, spiraling up trunks and dripping from the low branches, covering the earth in curls and knots.
“This?” Mairwen says. It is not what she imagined when she asked for beauty, but the starkness is inspiring.
“There is room for me here,” the devil says, “and the trees are quiet.”
She cannot tell if it is pity or love she feels.
Then the devil—Baeddan Sayer—smiles wickedly. “And also this.” He spreads his hands, standing in a cross, and his coat opens over his bloody, strong chest. He leans his head back, and at the tips of his clawed fingers tiny flowers of light bloom.
Mair gasps.
The lights bob in the air, blinking in a heartbeat rhythm. More appear, all around them. Mairwen turns slowly, amazed. When she’s made a full revolution, Baeddan is right before her, and he takes her hands. Lifting one eyebrow in charming invitation, he sweeps back and pulls her into a dance.
No music plays; there is only moonlight and vines and a gentle wind shaking the bare trees. There is only their footsteps and the brush of her heavy blue dress against his legs.
It is as beautiful as she’d hoped.
Baeddan’s hand is cold around hers, and those wicked thorns hooking out of his collarbones are very near her face as they dance. She smells blood, earthy and thick, like the ground after an autumn rain; cold granite in his breath; a shadowy sweetness she wants to taste again. Her front is colder than her back, just as it was when she stood half in the forest and half out the other day. She leans nearer to him, dancing carefully, but with a lightness she’s unused to, as if in this moment nothing else matters.
Rhun wakes first, as the sun rises. Mairwen sleeps with her head on Rhun’s shoulder, an arm stretched over him to rest on Arthur’s sternum. Rhun opens his eyes, warm and comfortable with his two most beloved friends on either side of him. Sunlight creeps in through the small square window, and Arthur’s hand is under his own; they curled together in the night. He turns his head. Arthur’s face is right there, lashes pale gold and fine on his cheeks. His nostrils flare slightly as he breathes sharp and wakes up, eyes flashing open onto Rhun’s.
The spark in them is anger, as always, but Arthur does not look away this time, or pretend he doesn’t realize how intimate this situation is. He holds still.
“You grounded me here,” Rhun whispers. His mouth is tacky from sleep.
Arthur lifts his eyebrows and turns his hand under Rhun’s, clasping it. The thorns of Rhun’s bracelet prick Arthur’s bare wrist. “I won’t let you fade away, Rhun Sayer. Or transform into a monster. Or turn bitter. You are the best, and—no, listen. You’re the best tome. I only care for what I care for—you know that—and I care for you. And Mairwen. I know what this valley is now, and who I am, and I know who you are and whatmatters. I know. I won’t let go of that, and I won’t let go of you.”
Rhun nods. He grips Arthur’s hand and tries not to show too much of his heart. His life was over, and then he learned everything was a lie, except this is true and always has been true: He loves Arthur Couch.
From his shoulder Mairwen sighs in her sleep. Both he and Arthur glance at her. Her skin is splotched and pale, and the hollows around her eyes are too purple. Her lips bloodless. Her hair lank and messy. He remembers his dream, even the part that wasn’t his own memory: She danced with the forest devil as if she belonged there.
“We have to keep her safe too,” he says to Arthur. He hugs her tight to his side and grunts at a strange poke where her chest presses to him.
“What?” Arthur asks, leaning up.
Rhun shifts, and though Mairwen clings to him, he gently rolls her over, and as she wakes groggily and with an uncomfortable sneer, he peels off her scarf. It’s wound behind her neck, crossed over her chest, and tied around her waist again. Blood smears her skin below it, and is crusted to the scarf.
A row of delicate thorns cut up out of her skin, along the sweep of her collarbones.
Arthur hisses over Rhun’s shoulder. Rhun is stunned, frozen, and Mairwen finally wakes fully, stretching. She winces as her skin pulls tight, and one hand flies to the thorns. They’re tiny, deep brown but fading to a reddish tip like rose thorns.
