She finally lifted her head to look at him. An echo seemed to pass between them, another moment nested within this one—something old and private that Theon could not guess at.
Tal set the potion down. Elodie lifted up onto her toes, took Tal’s face in her hands, and kissed him. Coppery flecks from the potion dusted across Tal’s cheekbones where she splayed her fingers. Her grasp knocked his glasses askew but neither of them noticed.
Theon’s ears heated. He looked away.
When the kiss was over, Elodie turned, her brown eyes newly bright with emotion. Her glance took in the bouquet, which was cradled in Theon’s lap, and Nettle, who was slouched in a chair at Theon’s side. Elodie smiled. It was a small but dazzling thing.
“Shall we get you home, brave little Theon rabbit?” she asked.
Theon hesitated. He looked at Alaya, who was watching him with her hopeful eyes. He looked at Nettle, who had appropriated his spoon and was using it to pick at the dirt under her nails while she very studiously did not watch him. The wanting was in her eyes again, he thought. It reminded him of loneliness.
But: the Destroyer. But: mercury Smith, war crimes. The Destroyer burns up bad little boys who don’t go to bed on time.
But also: gardening shears flashing in the moonlight. A bouquet of flamelike flowers wrapped up in white silk. She’s got us to look after her.
He swallowed, mustered himself, and made his choice. “I would like it, ma’am,” he said, “if I could come back sometimes? Maybe…maybe help you with the garden, to make up for the bush you had to ruin. And I…I could bring my sister too. I think you might like her. And I think she might like you all.”
Alaya’s hopefulness intensified. Nettle’s grip on the spoon tightened. Tal and Elodie looked at each other, some unspoken instant conversation passing between them in the manner of two people who knew each other as well as anyone could know another person. Elodie looked hesitant and uncertain for a fleeting moment; Tal brushed the backs of his knuckles across her cheek in reassurance. Her expression eased. She took a breath.
“We would like that, Theon,” said Elodie with an odd formality. “It would be very nice to have visitors.”
Nettle muttered, “Who don’t throw rocks at our windows,” but the words were venomless and her voice wobbled a little, robbing her tone of its usual biting effect.
“I will bring you a new carving knife instead,” Theon told her, and earned a quick glance and a half-hidden grin that made him feel like he had won a prize.
Alaya leaned toward him. “Come early next week,” she whispered. “I had a vision of it raining; Ma can’t make us plant new rosebushes then.”
He promised he would do so. He handed his spoon and bowl to Tal, who set them in the sink and started washing dishes. Theon politely bade farewell to Alaya and Nettle; the former politely farewelled him back, and the latter grunted in a not-unfriendly way, which for her seemed to be the same thing.
He stepped out onto the porch. He felt Elodie step out beside him, just far enough away that she might be admiring her garden or she might be waiting to walk him home.
He turned his head and looked at the little blooms that spiraled crazily out of the window boxes, the ones his sister had dared him to steal. He felt like a different boy entirely from the one who had crept in here to prove himself. He considered the flowers, and he considered himself, and he considered the nature of courage. He drew a conclusion. It was not bravery to pilfer a flower from a witch’s garden. This, he thought, was bravery: a family knit together against the darkness of their own past, and a woman who chose roses over flames.
He took Elodie’s hand and let her lead him home.
AT THE HEART OF THIS BOOK, buried deep beneath my own inspiration for the characters and plot and world, is a woman named Rachel Held Evans—a woman I consider a mentor even though I never got to meet her before her passing in 2019. Her books brought light and joy during an otherwise dark time when I was renavigating my own faith, and I honor her for that. Without the hope and wisdom in her writings, I don’t know that I would have had the courage to so deeply explore the themes of belief that are now present in this story.
Thanks also to the other authors and speakers who helped me find my path: Sarah Bessey, Jen Hatmaker, Dr. Frances Collins, Jacqueline Bussey, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and all of the brave and gentle and generally wonderful people from the Evolving Faith podcast discussion group.
I also want to thank the amazing fiction authors whose novels have inspired me: Megan Whalen Turner (if you haven’t read her Queen’s Thief series yet, go do it right now. Seriously.), Holly Black (I would DIE for Jude and Cardan), and Marie Rutkoski (let me just swoon for a minute over her gorgeous Winner’s Kiss series). Thank you all for being amazing, and for writing books that not only gave me master classes in characterization, world-building, and plotting, but also just entertained the heck out of me when I needed a break from the world.
Mercurial is my very first self-published book, and it was a whole different experience from the traditional publishing process I’m used to. I’m eternally grateful to the people who helped me bring this story into the world: my agent Naomi Davis, editor Alison Weiss, amazing cover designer Amelia (also known as @sakuraartist on Instagram), and interior formatter Lorie DeWorken.
And Britton. My very best friend in the entire world. There aren’t enough
