As if something prized, the jacket stood by itself inside the bottom drawer of her dresser, separated from all her other clothes.
Elain's new fae nose gave her the understanding that if it sat with her other clothing, his scent, still lingering in the piece, despite the many moths away from him, would pass to the other pieces. It was bad enough that her own skin revealed the bond as she had noticed on her sisters and their significant others; she didn't need that amplified.
In those initial months, she hadn't been as careful, had dropped it on her bed that very first day and kept it crumpled on the corner, beneath the pillows, perfuming her then delirious dreams with nutmeg and campfires.
The twins knew better than to disturb its presence from its designated spot, so even as they made her bed, they'd always replace it on the corner behind the unused pillows like an adornment. She had taken it with her the day they left the House of the Wind for the Townhouse and again as they were moved to the River House. She owned so little, only a few dresses and nightgowns that Mor had purchased for her and two pairs of shoes she alternated between in the days she bothered to leave her bed --- that jacket-coat alone was the heaviest and most striking thing she owned.
Owned. He would probably never ask for it returned, so she supposed that meant she owned it.
Nuala had asked if they were supposed to pack it, and she said yes. That day, when she had learned his name, spoken it, and in doing so branded her tongue like an enchantment. She didn't know why, but she couldn't leave it behind, like a hateful little comfort blanket a child might carry around.
Seventh son of Autumn. There had been significance in that, the wind had told her, but she couldn't for the life of her remember what.
(In those first nights at the River House, the smells had been so alien and harsh on her fae nose, that she had taken the coat and covered her head with it so she could finally sleep without the assault on her senses, coaxed into that safe, warm place in her dreams.)
She had considered throwing it away innumerable times, but as soon as her eyes met the emerald green fabric, the bronze silk lining, the vines in golden embroidery, the cuffs with cosmos flowers engraved, something in her heart ached. That spot he had tugged on her rib ached, and the thought of never seeing that coat again made panic surge in her very core, something akin to grief.
Grief like bile in the back of her throat — Lucien had spoken to her father on the day of his death, yet she had not. It wasn't fair.
And then there was the scent she so wanted to avoid, of something true and comforting. A son of Autumn, he had told her, but even if he hadn't, she would know. Nutmeg, campfire, chrysanthemums, her dreams.
When in her grasp, her hands gripped, and nails dug into the fabric exactly as she wanted to do to him. Shake him, fight him, demand that he release her from this torment. She wanted to hurt him, hurt him badly, but then the mere sight of pain in that burnt honey colored eye as their gazes crossed sent a spear straight across her heart.
Ever since she left that cauldron, her heart has felt as if pierced by a hundred ash arrows.
As she carefully folded the jacket-coat, she envied Nesta. Envied her ability to face Cassian and not flinch, not wince, not break. Envied that at least she knew him and that he had been on their allied side. The male who had called her his mate was nothing but a stranger who smelled of familiar dreams.
With time, the drawer grew less empty with the gifts he had given her. On one side, the gardening gloves sat neatly, and on the other, the box with the pearl earrings. She had loved the gifts; they had meant something, meant he had listened, watched, but that love exposed her bare, terrified her so much she couldn't bear to even look at them, much less use them.
So she hides them in the drawer, as if she could hide him in there, hide this hulking ever-pulsing feeling inside of her, so foreign and inseverable. If only she could hide her heart...
