A Court of Silver Flames
Nesta stared after her for a long moment, wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing. Two friendly conversations in one day. She had no idea when such a thing had last occurred.
Another hooded priestess drifted by, and offered Nesta a bob of the chin in greeting.
Quiet settled around her, as if Gwyn had been a summer storm that blew in and evaporated within a moment. Sighing, Nesta gathered the books Gwyn had left on the cart.
Hours later, dusty and exhausted and finally hungry, Nesta stood before Clotho’s desk and said, “Same story tomorrow?”
Clotho wrote, Are you not pleased by your work?
“I would be if your acolytes didn’t boss me around like a servant.”
Gwyneth mentioned she had run into you earlier. She works for Merrill, my right hand, who is a fiercely demanding scholar. If Gwyneth’s requests were abrupt, it was due to the pressing nature of the work she does.
“She wanted me to shelve her books, not find more.”
Other scholars need them. But I am not in the business of explaining my acolytes’ behavior. If you did not like Gwyneth’s request, you should have said so. To her.
Nesta bristled. “I did. She’s a piece of work.”
Some might say the same of you.
Nesta crossed her arms. “Some might.”
She’d have bet that Clotho was smiling beneath her hood, but the priestess wrote, Gwyneth, like you, has her own history of bravery and survival. I would ask that you give her the benefit of the doubt.
Acid that felt an awful lot like regret burned in Nesta’s veins. She shoved it aside. “Noted. And the work is fine.”
Clotho only wrote, Good night, Nesta.
Nesta trudged up the steps, and entered the House proper. The wind seemed to moan through the halls, answered only by her grumbling stomach.
The private library was mercifully empty when she strode through the double doors, instantly relaxing at the sight of all those books crammed close, the sunset on the city below, the Sidra a living band of gold. Sitting at the desk before the wall of windows, she said to the House, “I’m sure you won’t do it now, but I would like that soup.”
Nothing. She sighed up at the ceiling. Fantastic.
Her stomach twisted, as if it’d devour her organs if she didn’t eat soon. She added tightly, “Please.”
The soup appeared, a glass of water beside it. A napkin and silverware followed. A fire roared to life in the hearth, but she said quickly, “No fire. No need.”
It banked to nothing, but the faelights in the room flared brighter.
Nesta was reaching for her spoon when a plate of fresh, crusty bread appeared. As if the House were a fussing mother hen.
“Thank you,” she said into the quiet, and dug in.
The faelights flickered once, as if to say, You’re welcome.
CHAPTER
10
Nesta ate until she couldn’t fit another morsel into her body, helping herself to thirds of the soup. The House seemed more than happy to oblige her, and had even offered her a slice of double-chocolate cake to finish.
“Is this Cassian-approved?” She picked up the fork and smiled at the moist, gleaming cake.
“It certainly isn’t,” he said from the doorway, and Nesta whirled, scowling. He nodded toward the cake. “But eat up.”
She put down the fork. “What do you want?”
Cassian surveyed the family library. “Why are you eating in here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
His grin was a slash of white. “The only thing that’s obvious is that you’re talking to yourself.”
“I’m talking to the House. Which is a considerable step up from talking to you.”
“It doesn’t talk back.”
“Exactly.”
He snorted. “I walked into that one.” He stalked across the room, eyeing the cake she still didn’t touch. “Are you really … talking to the House?”
“Don’t you talk to it?”
“No.”
“It listens to me,” she insisted.
“Of course it does. It’s enchanted.”
“It even brought food down to the library unasked.”
His brows rose. “Why?”
“I don’t know how your faerie magic works.”
“Did you … do anything to make it act that way?”
“If you’re taking a page from Devlon’s book and asking if I did any witchcraft, the answer is no.”
Cassian chuckled. “That’s not what I meant, but fine. The House likes you. Congratulations.” She growled, and he leaned over her to pick up the fork. She went stiff at his closeness, but he said nothing as he took a bite of the cake. He let out a hum of pleasure that traveled along her bones. And then took another bite.
“That’s supposed to be mine,” she groused, peering up at him as he continued to eat.
“Then take it from me,” he said. “A simple disarming maneuver would do, considering my center of gravity is off balance and I’m distracted by this delicious cake.”
She glowered at him.
He took a third bite. “These are the things, Nes, that you’d learn in lessons with me. Your threats would be a hell of a lot more impressive if you could back them up.”
She drummed her fingers on the desk. Eyed the fork in his hands and pictured stabbing him in the thigh with it.
“You could do that, too,” he said, reading the direction of her stare. “I could teach you how to turn anything into a weapon. Even a fork.”
She bared her teeth, but Cassian only set down the fork with grating precision and walked out, leaving her the half-eaten cake.
Nesta read the deliciously erotic romance she’d found on a shelf of the private library until her eyelids grew so heavy only iron will could hold them open. It was then that she trudged down the hall to her bedroom and collapsed into bed, not bothering to change out of her clothes before she sprawled on the mattress.
She woke freezing in the dark of night, roused herself enough to strip off the leathers, and climbed under the sheets, teeth clattering.
A moment later, a fire blazed in the hearth.
“No fire,” she ordered, and it vanished again.
She could have sworn a tentative curiosity curled around her. Shivering, she waited for the sheets to warm to her body temperature.
Long minutes passed, and then the bed heated. Not from her own naked body, but some manner of spell. The very air warmed, too, as if someone had blown a great breath into the space.
Her shaking stopped, and she nestled into the warmth. “Thank you,” she murmured.
The House’s only answer was to slide the still-open drapes shut. By the time they’d finished swaying, she was again asleep.
Elain had been stolen. By Hybern. By the Cauldron, which had seen Nesta watching it and watched her in turn. Had noted her scrying with bones and stones and made her regret it.
She had done this. Brought this upon them. Touching her power, wielding it, had done this, and she would never forgive herself, never—
Elain would surely be tormented, ripped apart body and soul.
A crack cleaved the world.
Her father stood before her, neck twisted. Her father, with his soft brown eyes, the love for her still shining in them as their light faded—