He supposed, an hour later, that he should have patted himself on the back for being so businesslike about slathering parts of his soul on Sàraitchian bits and bobs, but the truth was, the only thing he could think about was how delighted his great aunt would have been to have been tossed a pair of his best efforts in payment for a day-old fish. He left his work on the mantel, then stumbled to the kitchen, feeling thoroughly wrung out.
If he made it through supper, ’twould be a miracle.
Léirsinn looked up from her soup pot when he walked in, then set her spoon down and walked over to him. “You should go to bed.”
“I’ll sleep in the study with you,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to deprive you of the view, of course.”
She pushed him down in a chair and put a bowl of something that smelled rather delightful in front of him. He looked up at her blearily.
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be,” she said, sitting down next to him. “I found your cook’s cache of herbs and recipes. Do you never come in this room?”
“Not when I can help it,” he said. “I’m going to be even less likely after tasting your wares here. Well done, you.”
He made manful efforts to stay awake, but even attaching simple spells to inanimate objects was exhausting. Putting that spell of shapechanging on that sovereign had almost done him in.
He realized Léirsinn had rescued his soup before he’d nodded off into it, then felt her take his hand and pull him up. She pulled his arm over her shoulders.
“Walk.”
He’d heard worse ideas, so he trusted she would put him to bed somewhere reasonable. He soon found himself stretched out in front of the fire in his study, Léirsinn sitting next to him. He reached up and touched her cheek before he lost all his strength.
“Don’t go outside,” he said wearily.
“You’re sure that’s Sladaiche?”
He nodded, fighting a mighty yawn.
“And he’s also the orchardist?”
“I daresay.”
“Why did he leave you that spell all those years ago, do you think?”
“Perhaps he thought my father might know how to finish it,” Acair said, turning toward the fire and noticing only then that she had taken off his boots.
“Would he have?”
“I’m not certain he would have bothered.”
“But if you trade pieces of your soul for black magic, wouldn’t that be useful?”
“I never said my father was particularly smart,” he murmured, “just power hungry.”
“Why would he want me?”
He pried his eyes open and looked at her. “You have something he wants.”
She looked at him blankly. “I am no one.”
“Must we do this again?” he asked, ignoring the crack in his heart that he was quite certain was reflected in his voice.
“I’m serious. You might want me, but you’re obviously blinded by my formidable ability to set things on fire.”
“It is impressive,” he agreed, feeling his eyes close relentlessly. He was honestly past fighting the weariness any longer. “And your red hair,” he murmured. “Don’t forget your red hair.”
“You’ve met red-haired women before, I’m certain.”
“None that I remember speaking to,” he protested, though he supposed that wasn’t entirely accurate.
Then again, the only one he could think of was Ruithneadh’s wife, Sarah. She was one of those dastardly dreamweavers, though, and capable of all manner of terrifying things. She and Léirsinn should never meet over tea. They would likely burn the whole damned world to cinders.
Well, and that gel who had helped him escape the gates of Eòlas after he’d sent Léirsinn and Mansourah off on his horse. She’d had red hair…
“I wonder if he was in Briàghde when those mages wanted you dead. That mage said you knew too much.”
He pushed aside things he simply didn’t have the strength to contemplate and struggled to focus on what she was saying.
“Those lads—oh, those mages,” he said, realizing he was slurring his words but unable to help himself. “Braggarts. Know the type.”
He was the type, but he imagined she already knew that. He groped for her hand and felt her brush his hair out of his eyes. It was perhaps one of the most profoundly intimate gestures he’d ever experienced, but, he had to admit, he had been accustomed in the past to tiara-wearing princesses wielding fans and perhaps one too many witches and magick-possessing noblewomen wielding spells.
What a lovely change.
He squeezed her hand and felt himself slide into darkness.
Sixteen
Two days later, Léirsinn sat in the same place, watched the man lying on the pallet in front of the fire, and wondered if he would ever again wake.
After the events of the morning, she was wishing quite desperately that he would.
Perhaps events was overstating things. She’d had a single event that had completely changed her opinion of those coins sitting on the mantel and left her counting them over and over again in her head, reminding herself of what they would do if she needed to use them.
Sianach lifted his head suddenly and that motion alone almost left her jumping out of her skin. He looked at her as if she’d lost her good sense, which she feared she might have. She put her hand over her chest to keep her heart where it was meant to stay, then reached out and patted Acair’s pony on the head.
He licked his chops—she didn’t want to know what he’d hunted out in the garden—and put his muzzle atop her bare foot. Comforting, if she could ignore the teeth that were still a bit too large for his mouth and weren’t exactly pleasant against her flesh.
What was less pleasant was thinking about what had happened to her earlier that morning.
She shouldn’t have gone out to the garden. She was fairly certain Acair had roused long enough the day before to remind her that she should stay inside. She was absolutely certain that she’d suggested tartly that he mind his own affairs and leave her to do as she pleased, but by then he’d fallen back asleep and likely hadn’t heard her.
When it came to mages and magic, she thought she might want to take his suggestions more seriously the next time around.
An innocent walk out in the garden, though. What could possibly have gone amiss there? She’d had confidence in Acair’s spell, so her most pressing concern had been finding a cloak to use in warding off the chill.