“I wonder if he’s the same lad who made your dragon charm?”
She shrugged. “King Sìle didn’t tell me his name, but I wonder.” She paused, then looked at him. “I’ve been thinking about something else.”
He only waited. That he didn’t make some insulting comment about that having been a challenge for her…well, she knew she should have been accustomed to that by then, but that didn’t make it any less lovely.
“I was thinking about that fire you made from your grandmother’s spell in your garden,” she said, finally.
“With the dragons, in honor of you.”
“Aye, that one.” She hesitated, then cast caution to the wind. If he was going to think her a fool, he could. “Did you hear it? The song it sang?”
“Ah,” he began slowly, “nay. What was this song the fire was singing?”
“This will sound daft—”
“Many important things do,” he said. “Go on.”
“I thought I was dreaming that song,” she said. “I heard it in your mother’s house.”
“The mind boggles,” he said with a shiver, “truly it does.”
“I finally figured out where I’d heard it before.” She took a deep breath. “It was a lullaby my father used to sing.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “When you say your father, do you mean your step-father?”
“Nay, my father. I’m almost sure of it.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Did your parents have any magic?”
She looked at him helplessly. “My mother? Nay. My father—or step-father, rather—I don’t remember him ever using any. What my true father had, I have no idea.”
He paced with her for several minutes in silence. “Prince Coimheadair said your sire was the last of his particular line,” he said thoughtfully, “so that leaves us without anyone to ask. But one wonders what went on in his homeland, aye?”
She nodded hesitantly, then decided there was no point in not speaking her mind. “I was wondering where you might hide a spell, if you had a spell to hide.”
“Besides under sofa cushions and thrones?” he asked with a faint smile. “I suppose I tend to tuck things in books, but as we can see with those spells from Ionad-teàrmainn, that goes awry more often than not.”
“But the spells you hid, the ones that work on their own. Why did you choose where to put them?”
He shrugged. “Because hiding things in plain sight, or as near to it as I can manage, tends to leave things undisturbed. Evil little mages are always on the hunt for things lurking in the shadows, not ordinary items sitting out in the open.”
“Then what do you think about that book we found that had just the cover left? Do you think Slaidear is the one who took whatever was inside?”
“Spells of revealing don’t lie,” he said slowly. “Whatever it contained—and I’m guessing it was spells—was definitely removed and more than likely by him. Why?”
“Do you think he’s also the one who cut the pages from my book of faery tales?”
He nodded. “Same answer there. And just so you know, my nose is starting to twitch with this direction you’re taking. What are you getting at?”
She was rather glad he had put his hand over hers on his arm to keep her somewhat captive. If she’d been able to, she suspected she might have run right out the door and continued on until she could breathe properly again.
“We can sit, if you’d rather,” he offered.
She shook her head. “That won’t make it any easier.” She took a deep breath, then stopped and looked at him. “If he is the one who took that story, it made me wonder why he would have wanted it.”
He only waited.
“I started thinking about your runes that look like coins and things, but have your power and magic hidden in them. That led me to wondering if someone might not just hide a spell in a book, but hide a spell inside a tale inside a book.”
His mouth fell open, but he seemed to be incapable of speech.
She nodded. “Everything comes back to dragons, doesn’t it?”
“Ye gads,” he said, looking stunned. “So you’re saying that someone hid a spell in that tale from your book that is no longer there.”
She shrugged helplessly. “I was just thinking that it was odd that the dragon said so little.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “I can’t say that’s unusual. A taciturn lot, those scaly beasts. Hearn might have a different opinion, but…why do you ask?”
She pulled away from him and walked back over to the fire. She looked over her shoulder to make certain he was following her, though she supposed she needn’t have. He was hard on her heels, wearing a gratifying look of concern.
She sat down on the sofa and dug out the notebook that contained his grandmother’s map. She pulled a pencil from her satchel, turned to a fresh page, and wrote down the words the dragon had spoken. She knew they were exactly as they’d been written because they were burned into her memory.
She handed the notebook to him. “That’s what the dragon says.”
He read it, then dropped the notebook. She picked it up, then handed it back to him.
“I think this is from the same language my father spoke. I can’t be certain, of course, but they have the same sort of cadence my father’s lullaby had.” She looked at him helplessly. “Like a horse’s gaits, you know. They all might canter, but each horse will have his own individual way of doing that.” She paused. “What do you think?”
He looked at her with an expression of awe. “I think you are a miracle.”
“What is that magic, do you think? Perhaps whatever they used in Ionad-teàrmainn?”
He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. “And there I’ve built a house atop the damned barn.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “If your true sire’s family came from there, and Slaidear was the one who was exiled for his activities—”
“Perhaps he thought someone in my family had the spell?”
He looked at her in astonishment. “I can’t believe we didn’t see this before.” He read the words again, then frowned. “This isn’t complete, though.”
“How do you mean?”
“The spell.”
“Oh,” she said. “I suppose not.”
“We’d all be husks otherwise. Though even just this much is terrifying.” He shivered. “I can hardly believe anyone would write even this much down, and you know I have a decent stomach for terrible spells—”