Of Light And Dark | acotar

Chapter 4

The years following the Archeron family's lost fortune and fall from societal grace, waking up had been drudgery. A necessity. The first item on a long list of what needed doing to survive. Nothing to celebrate. Nothing to relish.

But Feyre remembered a time before that. Early childhood memories of awakening to the smell of gardenias and lavender and hyacinths and chrysanthemums. In their old home — back before her mother had died and dropped the weight of her family's providence on her too-young shoulders — Feyre's window had hovered  over Elain's small garden. Just a handful of pots on the side patio, really. Their mother's compromise: Elain could tend to the blooms so long as she needn't kneel in the dirt and ruin her dresses.

Even at ten and eleven years old, Elain had had a way with plants. Every spring and summer — and, in warm years, even into autumn — Feyre would leave her window secretly cracked. At night, she'd fallen asleep watching the lacy curtains sway in the breeze. And come morning, the loveliest aromas of her sister's flowers would welcome her awake.

Feyre had never connected this ritual to her sister specifically. Not really. But whenever her dreams had dissolved into the blackness behind her eyelids and she'd taken that first deep breath before opening her eyes, the world had felt peaceful. And safe. And alive.

Sometimes, in the shack on the edge of the woods, forcing herself out of bed before the sun had peeked over the horizon, Feyre had missed that feeling. Yearned for it, lamenting just how easily it disappeared like the last petal falling and winter moving in to stay.

In the present, as Feyre eased into consciousness, once again the scents of goldenrod and pansies and lilac and sweetgrass and daffodils saturated the air. Heavy enough on her first breath that her eyes snapped open, disoriented. She half expected to see the faint purple walls of her little girl bedroom, the rocking chair in the corner with the porcelain doll propped up in it, sunlight filtering in through the gauzy white curtains.

She blinked a few times, bringing her surroundings into focus. A familiar room, but not the one she'd expected. Pink walls instead of purple. An ornate gold vanity across from the bed. Floor-to-ceiling French-door windows, currently thrown open.

Spring Court. They were in Spring Court again.

With measured, deliberate breaths, her pulse slowed. She separated the scents themselves — lovely and light and intoxicating — from the place. From the male. She thought instead of their third sister, safe and oblivious across the Wall. And, so long as Tamlin had upheld the bargain, sleeping peacefully and with a full belly.

The knot in her stomach loosened some more.

Behind her, Nesta's rhythmic breathing rose and fell. A light inhale. A slow, deeper exhale. Feyre listened to it, matched it to her own. When her sister finally roused as well and the cadence changed, she instantly noticed. Feyre turned her head on the pillow, and Nesta did the same, their eyes meeting. A silent check-in before getting to work.

Now, like before, her family's survival depended on her taking this first step into the day. At least this time, for just a few minutes, there had been peace in waking again.

••••••••••••

No one disturbed them as they went about their toilette that morning, getting cleaned up and dressed. Both wore similar white tunics and brown trousers. Both laced up identical pairs of worn boots. Not for the first time over the last several days, Feyre found herself grateful to be beside her sister. No matter what happened, at least she wasn't alone.

After a bracing breath, Feyre opened the bedroom door and led her sister through the manor and into the main dining room. She'd expected to see Lucien and Tamlin at the long table, as had been the custom in her previous stay in Spring.