He made sure she knew the way to a different guest chamber for all the necessary ablutions, then waited until she’d shut the door in his face before he walked off to his private study.
It was a lovely, snug spot connected to the library by means of a graceful set of heavy wooden doors which he currently closed because there were times he preferred to sit in a smaller room to be alone with his thoughts. If those thoughts had previously concerned, as his mother would have said, merely general naughtiness with only the occasional venturing to heights of true mischief, perhaps ’twas best he just keep that to himself.
He built a fire with his own two hands for the sport of it, then decided nothing was going to make his head pound any worse than it was already so there was no reason not to pour himself a hearty glass of brandy. He did, then sat down with a deep sigh.
He waited for deep thoughts to come, but found he was only equal to sitting and staring into the fire. The world still turned and shadows were still being made, though apparently not everywhere, and he would need to determine why. A mage that spoke in shards of metal was standing outside his house, watching silently, for reasons that could certainly have been explained by the usual reasons mages watched him, but somehow that answer seemed a bit too convenient.
Finally, his grandmother had handed him a mysterious map that seemingly led right to where he was sitting, which he suspected was not an accident.
He sat with those thoughts until thinking them any longer undid any relief his drink had offered him. He rose, saw to putting the house to bed for the night, then went to the front door and opened it. Seeing that nothing had changed with that blasted spell of death was reassuring, though he caught himself on the verge of something that felt a bit more like concern and a great deal less like fury over its existence.
He drew back inside his house, shut the door, then resealed the lock before he completely lost any sense of himself.
He unapologetically exchanged the hallway’s werelight for something a bit paler and dreamier made from Fadaire. If Léirsinn awoke, assuming she managed to fall asleep at all, she might be soothed by it. At the very least, she wouldn’t run into anything.
He retired, but found that in spite of the exquisite surroundings and the peace in which to enjoy them, he was uncomfortable. Obviously his guest was suffering from the same thing. He might not have heard her pass by his bedchamber if he hadn’t been expecting the same. Credit where it was due, though: the woman could walk almost silently. He didn’t want to think about why she’d mastered that skill, though perhaps ponies were lighter sleepers than he supposed.
He was grateful for an armoire full of comfortable gentlemen’s nighttime attire. He rolled out of bed, gathered up a thing or two that a shivering stable lass might find to her liking, then made his way soundlessly to his study.
Léirsinn was sitting huddled on the floor in front of the hearth where she had added only a single, rather inadequate piece of wood. Acair draped a luxurious silk robe about her shoulders, set the rest of his burdens down on a chair, and brought the fire back to life in a perfectly pedestrian fashion. He then went to fetch a pallet and more blankets. Perhaps all she needed to feel safe was a bit of undemanding company.
He walked back into his study to find that whilst she had shifted to one side of the hearth, she was still sitting on the floor and looking profoundly uncomfortable. He ignored how the sight of that gave him pains in the vicinity of his slightly broken heart and decided deeds not words were what was required.
He made a rough bed out of admittedly very fine materials, stretched out, then looked at her.
“Join me?”
“Lecher.”
He smiled. “Not tonight, I fear. You’ll have to hold out hope for better things in the future.”
She rolled her eyes, but she abandoned her post next to the fire and lay down next to him. He didn’t argue with her when she turned away to face the fire. He waited until she was settled before he put his arm around her and laced his fingers with hers. Icy still, which led him to suspect her trembles were less from the chill than they were from other things.
“Did you conjure all this up?” she asked, finally.
“Fetched it from a closet, rather. Utterly unmagical geese gave their all, I’m sure.”
She was silent for so long, he thought she’d finally fallen asleep.
“I will protect you,” she said very quietly. “I just need to catch my breath first.”
He found absolutely nothing in his vast repertoire of off-hand remarks that was equal to responding to that. His eyes burned terribly, but perhaps he couldn’t be blamed for it. He leaned up on his elbow and kissed her cheek, trying not to think about how many times in his very long life he had gone to sleep next to a woman he had wept over not once but twice. The number he would likely eventually have to give his mother for her history was zero.
“You’re a bit of a weeper, aren’t you?”
He smiled. “What an outrageously insulting thing to say.”
“I’m going to wake up with a cold thanks to you.”
He laid back down, put his arm around her again, and thought she might be right.
“Acair?”
“Hmmm?”
“What about your spell?” She paused. “You said only Soilléir could get through it?”
“Ah, I did promise you that tale, didn’t I?” Perhaps he might bore her to sleep. Given the identity of the essence-changing protagonist in the promised escapade, that was entirely possible.
