Wystwood

88. Sip of rhubarb gin

Armestrong knelt upon the petals and bundled Min against her chest. With the arches open onto the pale sky, Ada watched the clouds drift on the breeze and between sunbeams. Raeph remained on the outskirts of the lyceum, prowling the perimeter and marking each crumbled house and shattered window in the city beyond. Lark moved from cairn to cairn, whilst Diane and Solen had stopped next to the one piled around with fruit.

A pomegranate had been crushed over the cairn stones, its soft seeds staining it with spots of scarlet. Diane touched her hand to the highest stone, the pads of her fingers coming away sticky and pink. She shivered, and Solen came close so that she could rest her head against her shoulder.

"All this pain and death," whispered Diane, wet eyelashes closing against her cheeks. "What are we to do now?"

Solen traced her hand down Diane's back, unable to find the words until their hands wound together.

"When the world turns rotten"—she brought Diane's fingers to her lips and kissed them softly—"we must learn to savour the sweetness."

The afternoon approached with a brighter sun than had been seen all spring. It warmed the rubble of Wysthaven, small birds finding perches on the cracked sconces and dipping between empty door frames. Their songs were the only sound to fill the air; no chiming of bells nor rattling of chains.

The bandits left the lyceum when Min was ready, taking with them white petals which had stuck to their clothing like confetti. Some flitted away in their wake, settling amongst shards of glass like nature reclaiming the broken city. They walked through Wysthaven together, looking and listening, feeling the cobblestones beneath their boots with tentative, unfamiliar steps. Everything had changed and nothing was certain.

Down an alleyway, Ada spied a fae family stacking up the belongings of a deserted house. Whether it belonged to them or another, she couldn't be sure. In a small square, a man sat on a rug surrounded by weeds and roots. A number of fae had already gathered to look at his produce, though the man didn't appear to know what to trade for the plants.

The warm wind seemed to carry a strange magic through the streets. It suffused the air and tingled Ada's tongue, like something ancient was returning to the world. Or perhaps what she felt was merely an expanding excitement. A muddle of terror, temptation, and anticipation.

A growing number of fae came down into the streets as the bandits walked. They stretched their long fingers up to the sun and called out to those they recognised. Soon, they would begin to rebuild. Ada wondered what would become of Wysthaven when those hands began to mould a city for themselves.

They crossed the bridge from the outer city to the inner, though their buildings no longer looked any different. Those who had fought— Hounds and Stone Circle alike —had shown no favour when it came to destruction. The walls were covered so thickly in soot that they still bore the handprints of those who had sheltered there the night before, though they were perfectly reflected in the still waters of the canal.

Down a street dusted in cinders, the bandits finally stopped and stared up at the ruins of the Bonneville. The door had burnt away and the windows had all blown through. But the fire hadn't been able to eat through the entire building, as Ada could see the ceiling hadn't collapsed onto the pub inside.

Armestrong bent and picked up something buried beneath the ash. She dusted it off and Ada saw it was one of the golden stars that must've fallen from the pub's sign. Solen found another, then Min two more. Soon, Armestrong had a collection of stars heaped in her apron, which she carried with her into the Bonneville.

"Oh dear," said Solen, walking at once to the remains of the settee. The valour upholstery was gone, leaving a wooden skeleton to stand in front of the blackened hearth. Pots and pans were still scattered nearby, and Ada hated that the bandits must be reliving the Hound's raid on the pub.