“An hour,” he said, “no more.”
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.”
