He weighed my tone, and crossed his arms. “Let me do something. About Elain. I heard—from my room. Everything that happened just now. It wouldn’t hurt to have a healer look her over. Externally and internally.”
I was tired enough that I could barely summon the breath to ask, “Do you think the Cauldron made her insane?”
“I think she went through something terrible,” Lucien countered carefully. “And it wouldn’t hurt to have your best healer do a thorough examination.”
I rubbed my hand over my face. “All right.” My breath snagged on the words. “Tomorrow morning.” I managed a shallow nod, rallying my strength to rise from the chair. Heavy—there was an old heaviness in me. Like I could sleep for a hundred years and it wouldn’t be enough.
“Please tell me,” Lucien said when I crossed the threshold into the foyer. “What the healer says. And if—if you need me for anything.”
I gave him one final nod, speech suddenly beyond me.
I knew Nesta still wasn’t asleep as I walked past her room. Knew she’d heard every word of our conversation thanks to that Fae hearing. And I knew she heard as I listened at Elain’s door, knocked once, and poked my head in to find her asleep—breathing.
I sent a request to Madja, Rhysand’s preferred healer, to come the next day at eleven. I did not explain why or who or what. Then went into my bedroom, crawled onto the mattress, and cried.
I didn’t really know why.
Strong, broad hands rubbed down my spine, and I opened my eyes to find the room wholly black, Rhysand perched on the mattress beside me. “Do you want anything to eat?” His voice was soft—tentative.
I didn’t raise my head from the pillow. “I feel … heavy again,” I breathed, voice breaking.
Rhys said nothing as he gathered me up into his arms. He was still in his jacket, as if he’d just come in from wherever he’d been talking with Cassian.
In the dark, I breathed in his scent, savored his warmth. “Are you all right?”
Rhys was quiet for a long minute. “No.”
I slid my arms around him, holding him tightly.
“I should have found another way,” he said.
I stroked my fingers through his silken hair.
Rhys murmured, “If she …” His swallow was audible. “If she showed up at this house …” I knew who he meant. “I would kill her. Without even letting her speak. I would kill her.”
“I know.” I would, too.
“You asked me at the library,” he whispered. “Why I … Why I’d rather take all of this upon myself. Tonight is why. Seeing Mor cry is why. I made a bad call. Tried to find some other way around this shithole we’re in.” And had lost something—Mor had lost something—in the process.
We held each other in silence for minutes. Hours. Two souls, twining in the dark. I lowered my shields, let him in fully. His mind curled around mine.
“Would you risk looking into it—the Ouroboros?” I asked.
“Not yet,” was all Rhys said, holding me tighter. “Not yet.”
CHAPTER
28
I dragged myself out of bed by sheer will the next morning.
Amren had said the Carver wouldn’t bind himself into a Fae body—had claimed that.
But it wouldn’t hurt to try. If it gave us the slightest chance of holding out, of keeping Rhys from giving everything …
He was already gone by the time I awoke. I gritted my teeth as I dressed in my leathers and winnowed to the House of Wind.
I had my wings ready as I hit the wards protecting it, and managed a decent-enough glide into the open-air training ring on its flat top.
Cassian was already waiting, hands on his hips. Watching as I eased down, down …
Too fast. My feet skipped over the dirt, bouncing me up, up—
“Backflap—”
His warning was too late.
I slammed into a wall of crimson before I could get a face full of the ruddy rock, but—I swore, pride skinned as much as my palms as I staggered back, my wings unwieldy behind me. Cassian’s shoulders shook as he reined in a laugh, and I gave him a vulgar gesture in return.
“If you go in for a landing that way, make sure you have room.”
I scowled. “Lesson learned.”
“Or space to bank and circle until you slow—”
“I get it.”
Cassian held up his hands, but the amusement faded as he watched me dismiss the wings and stalk toward him. “You want to go hard today, or take it easy?”
I didn’t think the others gave him enough credit—for noticing the shift in someone’s emotional current. To command legions, I supposed, he needed to be able to read that sort of thing, judge when his soldiers or enemies were strong or breaking or broken.
I peered inside, to that place where I now felt like quicksand, and said, “Hard. I want to limp out of here.” I peeled off the leather jacket and rolled up the sleeves of my white shirt.
Cassian swept an assessing stare over me. He murmured, “It helps me, too—the physical activity, the training.” He rolled his shoulders as I began to stretch. “It’s always helped me focus and center myself. And after last night …” He tied back his dark hair. “I definitely need it—this.”
I held my leg folded behind me, my muscles protesting at the stretch. “I suppose there are worse methods of coping.”
A lopsided grin. “Indeed there are.”
Azriel’s lesson afterward consisted of standing in a breeze and trying to memorize his instructions on currents and downdrafts, on how heat and cold could shape wind and speed. Throughout it, he was quiet—removed. Even by his standards.
I made the mistake of asking if he’d spoken to Mor since he’d left last night.
No, he had not. And that was that.
Even if he kept flexing his scarred hand at his side. As if recalling the sensation of the hand she’d whipped free of his touch during that meeting. Over and over. I didn’t dare tell him that he’d made the right call—that perhaps he should talk to Mor, rather than let the guilt eat at him. The two of them had enough between them without me shoving myself into it.
I was indeed limping by the time I returned to the town house hours later, finding Mor at the dining table, munching on a giant pastry she’d grabbed from a bakery on her way in.
“You look like a team of horses trampled you,” she said around her food.
“Good,” I said, taking the pastry out of her hand and finishing it off. She squawked in outrage, but snapped her fingers, and a plate of carved melon from the kitchen down the hall appeared on the polished table before her.
Right atop the pile of what looked to be letters on various pieces of stationery. “What’s that?” I said, wiping the crumbs from my mouth.