Hozier Bogman's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Florence sat with her back to the barred door. Her hands would not stop moving. She twisted a length of yellow ribbon around her fingers until the tips went white. Hozier watched her from across the small room. She had said let them try, but the salt line at her threshold was already a cage to her now, not a shield. He could feel her fear pulling at the wet earth under the floorboards. If he opened a lesson here, her fear would climb into the magic and rot it before it took root. He needed her out of this hut. He needed her steady. "Come with me," he said. "There's someone you should meet." She looked up. "You said we stop." "We stop the lesson. Not the day." He held out his hand. "He's a friend. He lives past the cherry trees. You'll be safer near him than behind this door." She stared at his palm. Then she stood and took it. They walked the long way, keeping to the high peat where the water ran clear. The cottage sat where the bog softened into orchard, stone walls sunk deep, cherry blossoms heavy over the roof. Hozier knocked once. The door opened before his knuckles left the wood. Alex filled the doorway. Tall, quiet, dark feathers soft along his shoulders like a scarf he'd forgotten to take off. He looked at Hozier the way a brother looks at a brother who has been gone too long. He did not speak. He only stepped aside. "This is Florence," Hozier said. "The one who sang me up." Alex looked at her. He nodded once. "Come in." Inside smelled of yew wood and old tea. A bass leaned against the hearth, dark grain, thick strings. Florence stopped a step past the threshold, ribbon still knotted in her fist. Hozier put a hand at Alex's elbow. "She's rattled," he said, low. "The fae woman is close. I can't teach her while she's like this. Give her roots. Please. The bog will need us both, and we can't stay in a circle." Alex studied Florence for a long moment. Then he crossed to the hearth and lifted the bass. He carried it to the bench under the arbor out back, where vines twined the timbers and a fiddle rested on the seat. He sat. He set his hand on the low string and pulled. One note. Deep enough to feel in the floorboards. Florence's shoulders dropped. The ribbon slipped from her fingers. He played another. Then another, slow, no melody yet, only pulse. Hozier lifted the fiddle. He waited until his own hands stopped shaking. Then he laid the bow across the strings and answered. Florence stepped out under the arbor. She sat on the moss at Alex's feet. She closed her eyes and breathed with the note. When Hozier looked at her again, her hands were open in her lap. The fear had gone out of them. The lesson could begin.