Page 42 of Fallacies

There’s a beat of silence. And then, “Can I come?”

I shake my head from the doorway, but the throbbing between my legs hates that answer. “No, you stay right there.”

“Happy to,” Callan says sincerely, running his hands across the armrests as if he’s testing out their quality.

My eyes narrow, and his feigned innocence gives way to a taunting smirk. “What? I love this chair.”

Lips tilted up in a triumphant smile, I take in the sight of him from the doorway; lazily reclined, long legs sprawled and knees bumping against the base of the armrests, a river of Sol Marks dancing across every toned and chiseled inch of him. A king on his throne—that’s what he is—content with his new memory.

So am I.

“Good.” I drink him in a second longer. “It suits you.”

His laughter follows me down the hall.

I’d only been to the Gardens once. Gemma showed me on my grand tour of Pirn, and I’m still certain that it’s the most beautiful part of this hidden world. If I could have picked my coven and my power, I think I’d be a Flora.

Callan and I cross the stone path, tufts of grass and wildflowers peeking through the slabs. The massive expanse of the garden is on our right, and brightly colored trees tower on our left. It smells of freshly cut grass and newly packed soil, the botanicals growing thicker as we approach the Greenhouse.

Callan’s shoulders are tense, the line between his brows prominent, and I can only assume it’s because he’s about to introduce the girl he’s currently living with to the girl he used to⁠—

Oh. No. I don’t like that thought at all.

I’m not sure how serious he and Aster were, and I don’t hate myself enough to ask. It’s none of my business, and I do not want details. What happened in the past belongs in the past. We’re all adults here.

That’s what I tell myself as I focus on the stunning view, reaching my fingers out to brush the neat rows of blackberry bushes, ripe tomatoes, and freshly planted saplings. The leaves are soft against my skin, vibrant and healthy. Beyond them are fields of brightly colored plants that flutter open and closed—as if they’re breathing—white butterflies and bees dancing between them.

All around the crops, Floras work intently on keeping up the grounds, clad in their forest green smocks. Flowers bloom from their open palms, and shriveling plants soak in their magic like water, standing tall and healthy at the brush of their fingertips.

Turning from the rich scenery, I glance at Callan. “Anything I need to know before we get there?”

He shakes his head. “Just be yourself.”

My brows rise, questioning that statement.

Callan shrugs. “I meant what I said.”

“Okay…” I return my attention to the greenhouse. “This should be fun.”

I take in the stained-glass building as we approach, the rusted metal frame holding each pane in place. At its domed apex, the glass roof is nearly three stories tall, and the massive arched door is propped open. All around us, Floras flitter about, unbothered by our approach as they head out to the gardens, thick sacks slung over their shoulders and wide-brimmed hats shading their faces from the sun.

Callan steps inside with purpose, while I step inside like a child seeing snow for the first time—eyes wide and head on a swivel.

Sunlight filters in from all directions, shooting beams of green light over every inch of the space. Vines creep over the walls, wrapping around the spiraling staircases, and the open-faced railings allow you to see each level from the ground to the domed ceiling.

Floras walk back and forth between planter boxes, much like nurses checking patient vitals, and I follow Callan past desks littered with stems, seeds, and glass beakers, keeping in step as he leads us towards a massive column along the back wall.

There are deep shelves lining it, each packed with glass jars of various, seemingly alive things. Things that zip around inside as if they’re trying to escape. Things that crawl down the sides of the glass and things that cause the jars to rattle.

“Whoa,” I gape, unable to contain my wonder. “What are those?”

“All kinds of things,” Callan explains. “Poisons and potions, herbs that could do just about anything you want. Plants with healing properties and others with magic abilities that they’ve yet to even discover. The Floras are Botanists.” He lifts his eyes, dragging his gaze up the column of shelves all the way to the ceiling. “And that is their collection.”

I’m admiring said collection when a feminine voice drawls from somewhere in front of us, snapping my gaze forward. “What brings you to my side of camp, Captain?”

Shit.

She’s beautiful.