Mielikki folded her arms, giving no indication of her thoughts, instead waiting for Saara to finish, so she did. “Surely you must know of other fairy treasures. Could you help us find another so Timo and I can each have one?”
The goddess sighed. “I could, but again, why should I? Everything I do must build and strengthen my realm, or it is a waste of power.” She held up a finger before Saara could voice a protest. “I know what you must be thinking: that I help hunters find animals to kill. Yes, I do. But that is precisely why they must pray to me. I know which animals should die to keep my kingdom healthy and balanced.”
Everything Mielikki did strengthened her kingdom. Saara’s hopes wilted.
“I will heal your foot,” the goddess said to Timo. She wrinkled her nose as it as if it were already decaying. Saara turned to see it again and nearly vomited; it did seem to be rotting already, and now that she’d noticed a stench, she couldn’t help but smell it. “I will heal it,” Mielikki repeated, “but only, as you said, to erase the trace of Ajatar from these woods.”
“Oh, thank you!” Saara cried with outright relief. Throwing her arms around Timo’s neck, she said, “She’ll heal you!”
But he slumped, lifeless into her arms, and he chest remained still.
“Timo! Timo, no. Breathe. Breathe!”
“Timo, stay!” Saara took his limp hand in hers—so cold—and pressed it to her heart, hoping against hope that her touch would have an effect on the taint. “Don’t go.”
His face, lifeless and translucent, suddenly tightened. His eyes shot open. His mouth did too, and he screamed louder than Saara knew was possible. He clawed her hands, gripping them painfully under his nails. She winced but knew he was in far more pain than she was.
“He’s dying,” Saara said. “Can’t you see?” She lifted her face to the goddess, only to see strands of gold and silver flowing from her fingers into Timo’s toes. The chastisement dried up on Saara’s lips, replaced by awe at the power before her eyes.
Timo’s foot glowed, and she watched it changing shape, slowly returning its original form, the parts that had looked like burned wood smoothing out and growing paler, as if Mielikki’s magic was polishing his foot like a stone, removing the evil Ajatar had left upon it. Though he was clearly being healed, Timo continued to writhe in pain, screaming, veins in his neck thick and pulsing as the magic did its work. Saara held him, tears falling from her face onto his, hoping Mielikki’s “help” wouldn’t kill him before she was through.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, Timo’s cries softened, and his body went from stiff and tense to trembling from exhaustion. The glowing strands of magic faded, and then all went still.
Timo breathed in ragged gasps—but he was breathing, taking in deep gulps of air.
Saara laughed with relief through her tears. “Oh wise Mielikki, thank—”
But she was gone. Saara looked about, but there was no sign that the goddess had ever been there, not even the circle of dust.
“Thank you,” Saara whispered to the forest. “Thank you.”
Timo was shivering now as if it were the winter solstice. She scooted him to a spot of grass warmed by the sun. He lay on his side, looking out at the swamp. She lay beside him, facing the same way and wrapping his arm about her waist, hoping her body heat might help warm him.
After a moment, he raised his hand, pointed, and, in barely a whisper, rasped, “There.”
Saara looked toward a fallen juniper and saw, beside it, a purple dancing flame. “Is that—”
His arm dropped to the grass, and he nodded, smiling.
“I’ll go find the knife, and then we’ll get you to a healer. You can come home with me. Ritva can help you grow strong. You’ll see.”
He shook his head.
“No?” Saara sat up and turned to face him. “But someone must care for you until you’re strong enough to ...” Her voice trailed off before she could mention his search for an apprenticeship. Her insides tightened. “You needn’t worry; the knife is rightfully yours. I’ll get it for you. You have my word.”
Timo slowly pushed himself up to a sit position, regaining some strength already. “It’s not right for your sister to die so I can be a singer.”
“But—”
“You could have let me die. You could have taken the knife for your sister, and no one, not even the gods themselves, would have blamed you.” With every word, the color seemed to be returning to his cheeks. “You saved my life, though you knew it might cost your sister hers.”
“I could not let you die,” Saara said. “I wasn’t trading her life for yours. I’ll keep looking for a way to pay a shaman to find her itse. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way.”
“I want to help your sister.”
“Why? You don’t even know her.”
“My situation is not so dire; I won’t die if I don’t become a singer.” Timo slowly got to his knees, then to his feet, with Saara watching him carefully to be sure he wouldn’t fall.
They stood facing each other, and for a moment, nothing existed save the two of them. Instinctively, she stepped close and wrapped her arms around his neck, relieved that he was well and strong. His warm arms enveloped her, and they stood there in the wood, embracing, their hearts beating in tandem. They seemed to fit together as if they’d been made that way. Holding him and being held by him seemed entirely natural.
He pulled back slightly, and she looked up at him, gazing into the warmth she saw in the depth of his eyes. For a breath, her heart seemed to stop beating, turning her insides into pure molasses.
He took her hand and led her through the knee-deep swamp toward the juniper. The spot looked different from its surroundings: the spot where the flash had been was almost dry, and this close, it seemed to pulse with purple light.
“This is it,” Saara said in awe.
“Let’s find Voimakas,” Timo said.
They reached down in unison. They wrapped their fingers around the hilt and drew the stone knife from the swamp. Water and mud dripped off their hands, but the deep-blue knife emerged clean and spotless.
“It’s beautiful,” Saara said. Sun glinted off the blade, creating a stunning rainbow effect.
“Put it in your pocket, and we’ll get back to the trail,” Timo said.
She did, and they headed back for the trail. With each step, she wondered what would happen when they reached it. She and Timo would say goodbye, and who would leave with the knife? He’d handed it to her, had said she should have it, but that didn’t seem right.
She climbed out of the mud, helped Timo do the same, then walked to the boulder they’d sat by before, dreading whatever would come next. She wiped the worst of the mud from the hem of her skirts, then rubbed her hands together to clean them a bit. Not turning around, she smoothed back some wisps that had escaped her long braid.
“Saara,” Timo said from behind.
“Mm?” She was unwilling to reach the inevitable crossroad that turning about to face him would bring. She’d have to say goodbye, then try to figure out what to do with the knife. Suddenly finding the treasure didn’t feel victorious.
“Saara,” he said again. He touched her shoulder, and at the warmth of his fingers, she turned about against her will. She couldn’t bear to look at him. “In less than a day, I’ve learned more about you than anyone, including those I’ve known all my life.”
“Timo, don’t—”
“I know that Fia has a sister who is remarkable and brave. I know she has more sisu than most shamans and singers ever reveal.”
Her head slowly came up, as much from wanting to know what he was going to say next as wanting to see his beautiful face one more time.
He took a step closer. “I’ve long known that my chances of becoming a singer are slim. I’d rather have a life with a much greater chance of happiness, one where I spend my days with you. A life where I know that your sister is well. I’d much rather that than spend the rest of my days seeking for someth
ing I cannot have, living my life in misery, thinking about what might have been. Spending my life alone.”
“You’d be happy even without your dreams realized? After you’ve tried for so long?” She felt tears prick her eyes, this time for Timo and the thought of what such a sacrifice would mean.
“Even without that particular dream, yes, I’ll have a much greater chance at happiness with you.” He squeezed her hand. “If nearly dying and being saved by a beautiful woman taught me anything, it’s that such a woman is even more beautiful when she is willing to risk everything to save a stranger. Also that I shouldn’t base my happiness on one thing that is out of my control.”
“You’re ... sure?” Saara could hear the hesitance she felt in her voice.
“I’m sure. Happiness comes in many forms, but a life of solitude is almost certain misery.” The longer he spoke, the taller and stronger he seemed, the more life he had in his face and hands. He might have become even stronger after Mielikki’s healing touch. “I’ve spent so long chasing a dream, only to realize that life is fragile. I’d hate to die without having ever lived. Let’s go seek out a shaman and save your sister.”
“On one condition,” Saara said.
“Oh?”
“That after Fia is healed, you and I find a way to secure your apprenticeship.”
“But—”
She placed her fingers over his lips. “You’ve returned from the brink of death after a wound from Ajatar. You found a knife of legend. Don’t you think a wizard master might take on such a pupil?”
A slow smile began to spread across his face. “Perhaps.”
“So you’ll go with me to Pilvikoski, and then we’ll find a way for you to be trained?”
He held out a hand and said, “Only if we do it together.”
A flurry of emotions tumbled through Saara. Through it, she knew one thing: she’d never felt such joy and relief and, yes, even excitement and rightness at the thought of Timo being part of her life for years to come.
I might be able to look on that face every day, she thought with a thrill.
One day’s adventure, no matter how intense and unbelievable to others, wasn’t enough to guarantee anything, but she felt in her heart that she knew Timo better in one day than nearly anyone she’d known her whole life.
And she could scarcely wait to get to know every little thing about him. It would take a lifetime, years she was happy to spend learning more about him day by day.
She stepped past his extended hand, went onto her toes, and kissed his lips. She lowered her heels and said, “Together.”
Check out the next romance by Annette Lyon!
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Annette Lyon is a USA Today bestselling author, a four-time recipient of Utah’s Best of State medal for fiction, a Whitney Award winner, and a five-time publication award winner from the League of Utah Writers. She’s the author of more than a dozen novels, even more novellas, and several nonfiction books. When she’s not writing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding housework. Annette is a member of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association and is represented by Heather Karpas at ICM Partners.
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Cornelia Tea Rose read the note a second time, then a third time. Her sister, her beautiful, perfect sister, Felicia Damask Rose, was gone. Eloped. With the stable boy—now a man, of course, but a boy whom both sisters had grown up with.
Tell no one, the note read in Felicia’s flawless cursive script. She’d always been praised for her penmanship by their tutors. Until the sun has reached its zenith, and I am long gone.
Cornelia’s gaze flitted to the long, narrow window opening, colored orange with the early hues of dawn. How was it possible to keep such a secret? Especially when today, Midsummer Night, was Felicia’s wedding day?
As the younger sister of a genteel family, Cornelia had been raised to serve the elder sister—the sister with prospects. And for Felicia, having prospects turned out to be true. Twelve months ago, her father received an official letter from the government center on the Isle of Rose, requesting Felicia’s hand in marriage to Lord Moss Rose. Lord Moss was next in line to inherit the title of Lord and Master of the Isle of Rose.
Cornelia knew there had been a chance for her sister to receive such an honor. Not only was Felicia’s beauty known far and wide, but their father was second cousins to Lord Moss. They shared the same last name, and that only seemed to strengthen Felicia’s claim to a life of beauty, luxury, and honor.
But now ... she was gone. Off to marry, or perhaps she was already married to Louis Phillipe.
Cornelia sank onto the bed of silk sheets and satin quilts and gazed about Felicia’s abandoned room. Cornelia’s bed was not so fine, but covered with mere cotton blankets, as befitted a second daughter of the house. Felicia’s room was also gorgeously decorated with a sculpted fountain in one corner, the water creating its own musical melody, and tapestries that were said to be woven by women with silver fingers and golden hair.
But now the room was abandoned, and despite all the privilege that Felicia had grown up with, she left it all behind. She’d left her family behind. Her future position as the Lady of the Isle of Rose. And she’d left Cornelia behind.
Cornelia stood and crossed the room, then stopped in front of the cold hearth. She’d come early this morning, as was her usual duty, to light the fire in her sister’s room. By the time Felicia awoke each morning, Cornelia had already lit the fire and brought in a steaming tea kettle with a dainty porcelain cup, along with fresh biscuits and cream from the kitchen.
Each morning, Felicia would awake to warmth, sweet smells, and a smiling sister as a companion.
Now, Cornelia stared at the words on the note, fragments swimming together, then separating as tears gathered in her eyes.
Tell no one.
I am sorry.
I am in love with Louis Phillipe.
We will begin our lives anew, together.
Away from the castle.
Away from the Isle of Rose.
Our love deserves its own future.
It is my destiny.
Someday I hope to see you again.
My dear sister.
Until then, blessings.
And love.
Cornelia crumpled the note, then began to shred it piece by piece, tossing each sliver into the black ash of the fireplace. Maybe this was a dream. If she got rid of the note and went about her usual morning routine, she’d discover that Felicia hadn’t left at all. Cornelia knelt before the still hearth and picked up the kindling. She struck a long match against the flagstones and set the bits of paper to light.
The edges of the ripped pieces blackened and curled, then burst into orange flame. Cornelia added two small logs and watched, mesmerized by the advance of flames until the logs were engulfed. The warmth reached Cornelia, but she hardly noticed. Nothing could penetrate the cold that her hands had become.
Because she heard voices coming along the corridor.
Her father’s voice, and another man’s, whom she knew to be the emissary from the Isle of Rose. Cornelia straightened from the hearth and brushed her hands off, then took a step back. The men wouldn’t knock on her sister’s bedroom door, but Cornelia wanted to be closer in order to hear their thoughts. Spoken words were never the best indicator of what a person was truly thinking.
Only Felicia knew of Cornelia’s gift of mind reading. There had been tales of their grandmother, now long gone, being a mind reader. Cornelia had never told anyone else because mind reading might be considered witchcraft. And witches didn’t fare too well in their lands, as indicated by fre
quent stake burnings of suspected witches.
Cornelia was not sure how her grandmother’s gift had worked, but Cornelia could only hear men’s thoughts, not women’s. It was why she hadn’t known of her sister’s plans until she found the note. And since she didn’t spend time in the stables or around Louis Phillipe, she hadn’t heard his thoughts either.
But now, the voices of her father and Portland grew closer, and Cornelia listened ... hearing her father’s desire that her mother hadn’t spent so much money on the wedding gown and Portland’s desire for a smooth trip across the inlet to the Isle with the wedding party. Apparently, he was hoping for a promotion, up from emissary for Lord Moss to commander of his personal guard. Portland was worried about the repeated attempts on the lord’s life.
Cornelia had heard about the assassination attempts. But men in power were always in danger. That fact never seemed to bother Felicia, and now Cornelia knew why.
The men passed the bedroom door, and their voices and thoughts faded with their clipped footsteps.
Cornelia looked toward the window; the orange hue had brightened to yellow. The sun had fully risen, yet there were hours until it reached its zenith, when everyone’s life would shift toward an unknown future. Hours until she could make the announcement.
A man’s wedding day should at least bring some happiness, right?
Lord Moss had been wrong before. And he must be wrong on this account because even though his marriage to Felicia Rose had been planned for well over a year, he was still dreading it.
He currently stood in the banquet room in his castle on the Isle of Rose. Felicia’s portrait hung above the large hearth, her crystal-blue eyes gazing at the opposite side of the room. Her gold-yellow hair hung in heavy waves about her shoulders, and her long, slender fingers were tightly clasped in her lap. Her lips were pink and prim, as if she were holding back her true thoughts. Thoughts that Lord Moss would soon be privy to, whether he wanted to be or not.
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