To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

The sun is sinking, turning ribbons of cloud a soft shade of violet.

Standing amongst the ever-changing masterpiece of color and light, I watch Rhordyn stalk toward the labyrinth of trees that sweep around the castle grounds ...

My Safety Line.

He reaches the far corner where forest meets the plunging cliff and begins his survey of the perimeter—a walk that will trace my Safety Line until he disappears into the forest. Goes places I’ll hopefully never go.

Beyond those trees, bad things happen.

Wide, unseeing eyes.

The smell of burning death.

Beasts that tore into—

I clear my throat, hating him for hacking such a huge hole in my routine. Now I’m up here in knots, chewing on excess time, and I doubt he gives a shit.

He got what he wanted.

Hearing a sharp squeak, I glance through the balcony doors to my knapsack hooked on the corner of my ornate bed frame. After my afternoon got eaten up by Hovard, I never made it down to see Shay ... meaning I’ve still got a mouse in my bag.

Poor thing.

I peer back over the balustrade, watch Rhordyn trail the treeline, and my brows tuck into a frown.

Despite my bubbling well of curiosity, I’ve always stayed up here while he makes his evening rounds—figured the closed door between us extended to this part of the routine, too.

But today is no regular day.

He screwed up my schedule, threatened me, demanded I attend a ball, and took away my evening thrill. If he can’t respect my boundaries, why am I respecting his?

I draw a deep breath, scan the brassy rays stretching across the fluffy forest, and decide it’s the perfect time to visit my friend Shay. The fact that I’m exploiting the task to garner an up-close view of Rhordyn’s perimeter sweep should be entirely discounted.

I pull on a sweater, repack my bag, and dash out the door, taking the steps of Stony Stem two at a time until I reach the base, exiting into the castle’s fifth floor corridor.

When I enter The Tangle, I take a shortcut that spits me out just behind Rhordyn, and the rich scent of blooming night lilies has me breathing deeply, capturing the spicy perfume that always makes the back of my throat tingle.

I dart across the small stretch of grass, merging with a pool of shadow that fringes Sprouts—the greenhouse. Taking advantage of a manicured garden shrub, I use it as a shield while peeking around the corner of the cold, glassy building I love so much.

Watching.

His shoulders are rigid, barely shifting with each smooth step he assaults the ground with.

There’s nothing strange about his actions. He’s simply walking the same trail he always does, brushing a hand across the odd tree trunk here and there.

Parting from my line of sight, he lures me to leave the safety of my perfect hiding spot. I stick to slabs of shadow as I trail him, silent as a leaf being pushed along by the chilled evening wind.

The stars are beginning to wink, the moon a crescent barely holding much light by the time Rhordyn reaches the path that cuts into the forest—one framed with dense, twisting vines petrified by a long life.

It almost looks like a tunnel, dusted with little white flowers that smell sweet and fresh.

He pauses at the entrance.

Something about the way he’s holding himself has me edging behind the stump of an ancient tree clothed in moss, dropping low and pressing flat against the ground. Cool grass cushions my cheek as I ease forward just enough to glimpse his profile.

It may be the swiftly fading light, but I swear I see him whisper to the flowers right before he disappears into the forest.

I sigh, roll onto my back, and look to the stars prickling the darkening canvas, drumming my fingers on the ground.

The hairs on my right arm lift ...

I let my head fall to the side and scan the inky forest depths.

Shay is harder to see at this time of day, and it’s not like he makes it easy for me by leaping around and waving a hand. But I can sense him—can feel the air around me shift as if it’s cleaving a path for my friend to move through.

I push to a stand and edge toward a bush of night lilies. The white dust on the tips of their inky petals shimmers brighter by the second, their luster brought to life by the fading light.

Courtesy of these flowers, some of my paintings glow in the dark; like the stars and the moon on my bedroom door.

Barely two inches from the black line of rocks I’ve planted to mark my Safety Line, I kneel, foraging through my bag for the jar with holes in the lid. I untwist the top and stuff my hand inside, pinching the mouse’s stringy tail before gently easing him out.

He wrestles the air, squeaks sharpening, and I catch movement in my peripheral—a lanky, wraith-like creature flitting between elongated pockets of gloom, dressed in a smoky sheath that seems to gorge on the light.

My smile grows.

I can feel his eyes on me, akin to a paintbrush dipped in oil that flits across my skin.

He reaches a particularly thick piece of shade, its sharp edges blurring as the nest of night lilies brightens, releasing more of their spicy scent and spilling a soft glow that gives my gaze something to cling to.

There, he hovers—no more than two long steps away.

I lift the mouse higher, bringing him eye level.

Whiskers twitching, the rodent arches his back and reaches for my nose, like he thinks I’m going to save him.

I cock my head to the side and watch him struggle. Watch him stretch and stretch until he’s turned himself into a fluffy pendulum; one that counts down his final heartbeats.

I usually just fling them over the line, but—

I’m not seeing any effort to overcome your fears.

I sigh, failing to tame the heavy roll of my heart.

Dammit, Rhordyn.

Before I can think it through, I grit my teeth and shove my hand across the line of rocks, breath held, body stilled, doing everything in my power not to crumble into a ball and release a sawtooth scream.

I should probably be afraid of the messy shadow inching forward, crouched low and making that clicking sound in the back of his throat ...

I’m not.

My fear is a wild thing pointed in other directions.

I last four seconds before I drop the mouse and snatch my hand back over the line.

Shay pounces in a snap of smoky ribbons and skeletal fingers. There’s a final, tortured squeak before his blackness begins to ebb, and wet, suckling sounds ensue.

I shake my hand, stretch my fingers, inspect my skin ... half-expecting it to bubble and split. Part of me wants it to—wants the world beyond my Safety Line to be so poisonous the only option is to stay right here forever.

Safe.

I guess I can’t exactly claim this as a victory when I’m hoping for such things.

Shay rears back, and all that’s left of the mouse is fluffy skin sucked close to a small, angular skeleton. I once used a stick to nudge a corpse back over the line so I could inspect the thing, and it was hard like a pebble.

My friend and I watch each other while the moon owl hoots his eerie wake-up call, and I can feel the hum of Shay’s appreciation.

Despite the fact that he can probably hunt his own food, I think he enjoys the fat little gifts I provide. Or perhaps he just enjoys the company while he dines.

Something I can appreciate.

In an unceremonious spurt of movement, he darts off through the darkening forest, leaving a chill that nettles my skin.

I shiver, peering at the path that swallowed Rhordyn whole ...

He could be down there all night.

For not the first time, I wonder where it leads. A curious seed I refuse to plant or water or feed light into.

My world is right here, on this side of the stones. Out there belongs to the bones of my broken past and beasts that stalk my nightmares.

Pushing to my feet, I brush off my pants and make for the castle, certain dozens of eyes are pinned to my retreating form.

* * *

This stairwell twists deep into the ground, the way lit with torches held by rusty metallic sconces. The flames look like dancing blooms, and the further I descend, the more they hiss; the thicker the air becomes with steam that curls the loose veil of my hair.

Reaching the bottom step, the stairwell yawns into a vast cavern ...

I could wash in my room, but I much prefer it down here in Puddles—the communal bathing chambers.

Sconces cast the wet stone in a gilded glow and illuminate mineral fangs that hang from the ceiling, reaching for a dozen steaming springs, some with no more than a thin vein of rock casting them apart from their neighboring pool.

Each is filled almost to the rim with water that looks like black ink in the low light, a rich contrast to the haze that whorls off them in ghostly wisps.

The springs are big enough to house over ten people, but are always empty at this time, a luxury that allows me to strip.

My pants and panties go first, then my muddy, paint-stained blouse, before I get to work unbinding my breasts. Every untwist of the stretchy bandage allows me to breathe a little deeper, but even as I let the material flutter to the ground, my skin still feels too tight.

Always.

Stretching my arms this way and that, I tiptoe toward my favorite spring at the far end—the one pressed against the wall. I edge down toothy steps, letting the water scald my bristling skin. After a few seconds, the burn yields to a restful numb, and I dip further ... further ... until the floor gives way to the endless deep.

I’m not sure how far it goes, or if it even has a bottom. But the deeper you dive, the hotter the water, as if it spawns from the belly of the earth.

Hair dragging behind me, I tread toward the far side.

This spring doesn’t have the most comfortable sitting spots, but thisspring ...

It’s my guilty pleasure.

Reaching the wall, I ply my fingers between a crack and grip hold, peering down to where years of erosion have worn a hole through the rock. A hole that allows the faintest flow of water to push and pull from whatever’s on the other side, like it’s sharing breath with a separate spring not caught inside the chamber of Puddles.

I dove deep and explored the breach once—felt its jagged edges, as if someone kicked it into existence. I tried to see what’s on the other side, but it’s dark down there. Gloomy.

Still gripping the rock, I rest my forehead against the wall and close my eyes.

A rich, leathery musk perfumes the air, making me moan. I empty my lungs before drawing them full, holding onto the ambrosial breath as if it alone could sustain me for eternity.

Feed my hungry heart.

The reason I love this spring so much—the reason I bathe here rather than relying on the convenience of the tub in my tower—is because sometimes ...

Sometimes the water smells like him.