Acotar retelling

A Pool of Starlight

The next day, the blood of the faerie had been cleaned up by the time I ate, washed, and dressed. I'd taken my time in the morning, and it was nearly noon as I stood atop the staircase, peering down at the entry hall below. Just to make sure it was gone.

I'd been set on finding Tamlin and explaining—truly explaining—how sorry I was about Andras. If I was going to stay here, stay with him, then I could at least attempt to repair what I'd ruined. I glanced to the large window behind me, the view so sweeping that I could see all the way to the reflecting pool beyond the garden.

The water was still enough that the vibrant sky and fat, puffy clouds above were flawlessly reflected. Asking about them seemed vulgar after last night, but maybe once those paints and brushes arrived, I could venture to the pool to capture it.

I might have remained staring out toward that smear of color and light and texture had Tamlin and Lucien not emerged from another wing of the manor, discussing some border patrol or another. They fell silent as I came down the stairs, and Lucien strode right out the front door without so much as a good morning—just a casual wave. He clearly had no intention of joining the conversation that Tamlin and I were about to have.

I glanced around, hoping for any sign of those paints, but Tam pointed to the open front doors through which Lucien had exited. Beyond them, I could see both of our horses, already saddled and waiting. Lucien was already climbing into the saddle of a third horse. I turned to Tamlin.

"Where are we going?" My words were half-mumbled.
"Your supplies won't arrive until tomorrow, and the gallery's being cleaned, and my ... meeting was postponed. I thought we'd go for a ride—no killing involved. Or naga to worry about." Even as he finished with a half smile, sorrow flickered in his eyes. Indeed, I'd had enough death in the past two days. Enough of killing faeries. Killing anything. No weapons were sheathed at his side or on his baldric—but a knife hilt glinted at his boot.

"Where to?" I asked. He only smiled.

I couldn't come up with any words when we arrived—and knew that even if I had been able to paint it, nothing would have done it justice. It wasn't simply that it filled me with both longing and mirth, but it just seemed ... right. As if the colors and lights and patterns of the world had come together to form a perfect place—a true bit of beauty. After last night, it was exactly where I needed to be.

We sat atop a grassy knoll, overlooking a glade of oaks so wide and high they could have been the pillars and spires of an ancient castle. Shimmering tufts of dandelion fluff drifted by, and the floor of the clearing was carpeted with swaying crocuses and snowdrops and bluebells. It was an hour or two past noon by the time we arrived, but the light was thick and golden. I hugged my knees and drank in the glen.
"We brought a blanket," Tamlin said, and I looked over my shoulder to see him jerk his chin to the purple blanket they'd laid out a few feet away. Lucien plopped down onto it and stretched his legs. Tamlin remained standing, waiting for my response.

I shook my head and faced forward, tracing my hand through the feather-soft grass, cataloging its color and texture. I'd never felt grass like it, and I certainly wasn't going to ruin the experience by sitting on a blanket.

Rushed whispers were exchanged behind me, and before I could turn around Tamlin took a seat at my side. His jaw was clenched tight enough that I stared ahead. "What is this place?" I said, still running my fingers through the grass.

"Just a glen." Behind us, Lucien snorted. "Do you like it?" Tamlin asked quickly.

I took a breath and stared at the glen again. "Yes."
He chuckled. "That's it? 'Yes'?"
"Would you like me to grovel with gratitude for bringing me here, High Lord?"
"Ah. The Suriel told you nothing important, did it?"