Linden strode forward. With one hand, he fiddled with the neckline, which scooped down one shoulder and under the opposite arm. He touched the first mark that started halfway across Briar’s collarbone.
“There’s magic that could heal these scars.”
Suddenly self-conscious, Briar crossed his arms and rubbed a hand over the tithes. After hearing Linden speak out against his parents, he’d thought the rebellion of wearing proudly that which others found shameful would appeal to Linden.
“I don’t want to get rid of them.”
“Wh—Then perhaps a matching sleeve? It is a bit showy, with the slit leg as well.”
Briar looked down at his clothes and felt naked. Perhaps it was the exhaustion or the mess of events that had led him here, or perhaps it was simply that his time was running out and these last moments of it were not the memories he wished to leave behind. A knot of shame that was wholly new tightened his throat.
Contrition replaced Linden’s judgmental stare. “Oh, Briar, you must know I think it’s beautiful on you. I hadn’t meant to—Please, come sit.”
Briar sat on the bed at Linden’s urging, staring at his hands in his lap.
Linden took both in his. “Briar, look at me.”
He did.
“I speak from a place of concern for your well-being. The press are jackals. The first whiff of controversy is a thing they’ll feast upon for years. I only wish to protect you from that.”
“I want to wear something that’sme. The real me.”
“That is precisely the vulnerability they hunger to exploit.”
“Let them,” Briar said heatedly. “What do I care? I’ll be dead soon.”
“Thatisn’ttrue.” Linden tilted his chin to look in his eyes. “Don’t you believe me when I say I won’t allow it?”
Briar wanted to believe it. By all rights, he should. Niamh’s tarot reading left little ambiguity about his fate in Linden’s capable hands. If she was correct, Linden would have a cure, and Briar would be healthy. Yet he still struggled with everyday tasks, with spells that used to snip as easily as new scissors through string, and frequently it was difficult to see a future through the fog of his own exhaustion. Through the ache of missing someone else’s arms around him.
He still thought of Rowan far too often.
Briar swiped at the dampness in his eyes. “Then help me out of this. I need to rush if I’m going to alter it—”
“Briar.” Linden cupped his cheek and said, “I only wished to warn you. Please, wear it. I can see how it matters so much to you.”
But the knot of shame didn’t go away.
Linden held nothing back in decorating Coill Darragh’s central square for the press release. A temporary pavilion of bunting and silk banners fronted the fountain, blocking the view of Éibhear’s statue. Throngs of people gathered, many wielding cameras.
Briar peeked through the tent flap at them.
The noise of the crowd muffled the moment the flap closed. Linden hadn’t arrived yet, busy with preparations. Briar had hardly slept and risen early. He’d taken a larger dose of elixir to prevent any mishaps on this day, where he couldn’t afford a mistake. Absently, he touched his arm. Though he’d never shied from the spotlight before, this was different. He couldn’t help but think of Gretchen, whose complaints and company he missed. She would hate these crowds, if she’d been here.
The flutter of the tent flap and noise from outside drew his attention. He thought Linden said he’d arrive by portal to avoid being seen—
The outside din muted as the tent closed behind Rowan. He froze there, gazing at Briar, drinking in the sight of him with unguarded admiration. That look made something inside Briar twist. It was precisely the awestruck, reverent expression with which he’d hoped Linden might look at him.
After a stunned moment, Rowan cleared his throat, recovered himself, and took a few steps into the tent. “Thought I’d come wish you luck,” he said.
Briar took a step toward him too. “Thanks, I’ll need it.”
“No, you’ll be grand.” The quiet of the tent got quieter. “There’s a lot of people out there.”
“Yeah. No pressure or anything. Just the whole world behind the cameras.”
“They’ll love you.”
