Page 106 of Find My Way Down to You

“Did you even know what it meant to be the ferrier?”

He nods again. I watch him move over to a couple of potted flowers.Cymbidiums, boat orchids. Their fleshy, thin magenta petals shiver under his tender touch.

“I had watched other ferriers,” Cary explains. “The ones before me.”

My brows knit. “Before…you?”

In the falling sunlight, his eyes grow blacker. The deepest parts of the ocean. He looks at me. “I am not the first, August. None of us are. Except my mother.”

The revelation jolts me. I lean on a workbench. So many questions crowd my brain. I don’t know where to start. But Cary does.

“Deathless have existed for as long as your realm. We are chosen. And we can choose to carry this power”—he turns his palm over and I swear I can see rivers of gold along his palms, brightening the shape of his veins—“for as long as we want.”

“Then what?”

He sighs up at the sky. “We give up the power. To someone else worthy. We leave behind who we are for Elysium.”

My breath catches. It’s like the room is spinning. There’s so much I still don’t understand. But I see the somberness around Cary’s eyes. Pulling at his mouth.

He didn’t fully understand the role he was taking. What he’d committed to. Or what he’d condemned Milos to.

Cary was achild.

I move closer to him. “You love being the ferrier, though.”

His lips twitch. “Can you tell?”

Nodding, I say, “You’re so good with them. The souls. You’re…gentle.” My hands fidget, desperate to touch him. I stop myself.

“The last ferrier was”—he pauses, chewing his lip—“tragic.”

Now I’m grinning.

“He did not care for their fears,” Cary continues. “For him, it was just a role. Like with…”

He trails off. But I know what he wants to say:Milos.

There’s a weight behind his stare. My pinkie skims theback of his hand, coaxing him on. To tell me more.

“Over time, my brother has changed. He makes his own rules.” He frowns. “I blame myself. I made him who he is.”

The sun tucks behind the trees surrounding the greenhouse. In its afterglow, we burn pink and violet.

“Is this the life you want?” I ask.

He can give it up. Stop being the ferrier. That’s what he said, right?

The skin between his eyebrows pinches. “I do not trust anyone else to do what I have to.”

I shake my head. “That doesn’t answer my question. Is this whatyouwant, Cary?”

“Is this the lifeyouwanted, August?”

The suddenness of his own question makes me pause. Bright orange petals draw my eye.Marigolds.On Mom’s workbench. A wave curls in my belly, splashing its way up my chest.

“No,” I whisper. “It’s not.”

He watches me, expectant.