Page 3 of Summer of Sacrifice
Grimm shook his clouded, tangled thoughts loose. It was too much.
“Mm,” Nyxia broke into his reflections, squeezing his arm once before letting go. “When Agatha comes to Achlys, she will begin to recall more.”
“To Achlys?” Grimm pushed himself to stand and dusted the dirt from his pants. “Agatha is Queen of Seagovia now.”
“All thanks to you.”
He blinked at the Goddess of Death’s sardonic tone. “It was the right call.”
“I never said it was not. But Athania, or whatsoever name she chooses to go by now, did this”—she shot a hand out toward his mother’s headstone—“for a reason.”
Grimm waved Nyxia off dismissively. “Chresedia wants the kingdom. I promised her Seagovia once my parents were dead—or unfit to rule in my father’s case—if she would let me keep my reaper.” He snorted at that, the fact Chresedia had fallen for it. “But only after I knew the kingdom was no longer mine to give. It was all a ruse.”
“Precisely. But why does she want the kingdom, Thanasim? Why has she not yet taken it? I do not have answers, and I know you will not find all of them here.”
“You know,”—he turned slowly toward her, slipping his hands into his pockets—“it’s become quite strange to me that you have been with us for so long, all of us, and you know nothing. Not once did you mention who she was to us.”
A hint of pain flashed across Nyxia’s eyes. “Why is it that you have not shared what you have learned about that very relationship with your wife, hm?”
Goddess’ teeth. Because he didn’t know how. Telling Agatha of the level of betrayal—the level of love between her and Athania… “It’s not my memory to tell. I have to find a way to show her.”
Nyxia nodded, the willow behind them rustling in the breeze.
“Nyxia,” he pleaded, “I can’t fucking remember everything. We need you to help us.”
“You remember who you truly are. That must be enough for now.”
“You know damn well it’s not!” Grimm’s shout was chased by a deep roll of thunder that reverberated through his bones. Ominous clouds bloomed suddenly in the sky above them, bloated and bruised as a corpse.
Nyxia looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. “I think that it is enough, my son.” She stepped forward and placed a hand on his cheek, already dissipating into fog. “Bring Asteria to Achlys, and I will tell you all that I know.” Her dark brows knit together, and deep sadness shrouded her like the smog stealing her away. “It is not much, Thanasim. And that is by your own design.”
She was gone, and Grimm cursed at the darkened sky.
AGATHA
“Gods!” Sorscha muttered, walking in through the front door of Tindle’s shop, the little bell above it tinkling. “Where did all this rain come from? It was just sunny without a damned cloud in the sky.”
Sister Spring discarded her sopping dress via magic and threw flames into the small hearth. “Tindle, I’m taking this one.” She yanked a crimson dress off a rack with little ceremony, earning her an irascible frown. “Are we still at this?” Sorscha griped, slipping the dress over her head. “I need to be back in Araignée by nightfall.”
“We’re doing the best we can,” Agatha gritted out to her Sister.
Winnie entered the room carrying an armload of morning coats. Glancing out the front window that looked out onto Mer Row, her curiosity took the same turn Sorscha’s had. “It’s really coming down out there,” she said as she began to carefully hang the coats on a rack, one at a time. “Wasn’t it sunny when I went to the back for these?”
Seleste strode forward in the fray and handed Sorscha a lemon blueberry scone. “They’re still warm.” Sister Summer turned to take her own view of the sudden rain. “This isn’t natural rain.”
“Enlighten us,” Sorscha drawled, flourishing a lazy hand and biting into her scone.
“It came out of nowhere,” Seleste explained, “and there is a strong salt content.” She opened the front door a crack and inhaled delicately. “Someone very powerful used seawater to form the clouds.”
Agatha winced and dutifully ignored the rumble of Grimm’s dark mood within the bond, keeping perfect time with the rolling thunder outside. She snatched one of the morning coats out of Winnie’s arms and turned, holding it up to Emile, who was slouched in the corner, silent and wholly uncomfortable. “How about this one?”
“If he wants to look like a pretentious prig,” Tindle spat over his teacup, one pinky high in the air. “I’ve had enough of funeral black for the next three moons.”
Agatha sagged into a chair. The crotchety dressmaker was apparently living in his shop, and it showed. Along with his ignored grief parading itself as uncharacteristic untidiness, she’d been to his home the night prior, and it boasted no signs of him having been there in days. Tindle also hadn’t discussed losing Demitri once in the time since it happened, save for the night he gave them the facts of what occurred.
Agatha had learned far too intimately that such grief must be felt in its entirety. The damage of not doing so could inflict great trauma upon the soul. Alas, Tindle was as stubborn as she was and hadn’t even shed a tear since the night Demitri died. Granted, she supposed his vicious anger at the entire realm was one stage of the process. She only feared everything would come crashing down on him in an anvil-heavy blow when it was least expected if he didn’t let himself feel it soon.
“I think the dark blue is nice…” Emile spoke up timidly from the other side of the shop.