“So what’s the plan now?” Vatii grumbled.
Briar grinned. “I think we deserve a drink.”
The Swan and Cygnet overflowed with people clutching pitchers, light glinting off their wardstone bracelets. Briar waded toward the bar. Vatii perched on his head, annoyed at the other patrons for bumping into her long tail.
Maebh cleaned a glass and ignored the pointed looks of rowdy tourists. They were tended to, instead, by her frazzled barmaid. Seated on a stool in front of Maebh was Rowan, his hands dwarfing a pint of stout. The two of them spoke low, with heads bowed, Rowan’s strong profile wearing a grim scowl. As usual, strangers avoided him, so it was easy for Briar to sit next to him, bumping shoulders.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
“Briar.” His name rolled over Rowan’s tongue, ther’s gone both soft and solid, like melting butter.
“Nice to see you again, Maebh,” Briar said politely. Vatii hopped onto the bar top, probably not helping him into Maebh’s good graces as she pecked at biscuit crumbs.
“What can I get you?” Maebh asked.
Had he imagined that her tone was warmer? “Do you have another recommendation?” He nudged Rowan. “Something traditional for Saor ó—” Briar struggled with the pronunciation. His accent didn’t wrap around the vowels the same way.
Rowan raised his pint. “Stout’s traditional.”
“I’ll have that, then.”
Maebh hit Rowan’s arm with her dish towel. “Give him a try of yours first, like.”
She wasdefinitelywarmer than Briar remembered. She also didn’t shy away from Rowan like everyone else. Obliging, Rowan passed the pint, filled with liquid so inky dark it could have been bottomless. Briar took an experimental sip. Creamy froth left a moustache on his upper lip, which he licked off. It was a bitter and deep-flavored beer, more meal than drink.
“Like it?” said Maebh.
“It’s—good!”
Maebh said, “What are you really after?”
“Mulled wine?”
“I’ll tell Aisling. Can you get that, Aisling?”
From the other side of the bar, Aisling called back, “Now in a minute.”
“Never mind, I’ll get it myself.”
“You missed some—” Rowan’s big hand was suddenly in Briar’s periphery. After startling a second, he froze, and Rowan wiped a bit of froth from his upper lip with the pad of a thumb.
It set Briar’s heart skipping. The cacophony of the bar fell away for just a moment. Rowan’s by-now-familiar aura rubbed against him like hands bracketing his waist.
Maebh returned just as Rowan’s hand dropped back to his pint.
Briar chastised himself internally for leaning into the touch, for the thoughts that crooned in his mind about what those big hands would feel like cradling the back of his head or hitched up under clothes. Maebh was right there, giving Briar a look of calculated scrutiny.
It was difficult to tell if the gesture had been an idle, platonic thing.
It hadn’t felt like it, though.
Maebh slid him the mulled wine. He reached for his coin purse, but she held up a hand. “Leave it. You helped my Sorcha. Seems you’re friendly with my Rowan, too. So that drink’s on the house.”
Briar felt both grateful and stupid. Looking at Maebh closer, the resemblance should have been obvious. She was their mother.
“Is everyone here related?” he blurted.
Maebh’s barking laughter eased his fear of causing further offense. “Ours is a large family, but you’ve met the best of them.”
