Rowan grunted. “Mam.”
“Right, I’ll leave you before Aisling has a canary, but you best enjoy yourselves this evening, all right?”
She ambled away. Briar took a sip of his mulled wine, the tart, fruity brew and warm spices bringing a flush to his cheeks. Rowan considered him, quiet as usual. It was difficult to pin him down. He wasn’t quite brooding, just less warm, and a cord of discontent furrowed his brow.
“I thought you’d be enjoying the festivities,” Briar said.
“Hmm.” Rowan tilted his head from side to side.
“Sorry if I interrupted a serious conversation with your—mam?”
“No, nothing like that.” At Briar’s inquisitive look, he took an evasive sip of stout. “Have you been enjoying your night?”
Briar leaned in close. He could see the individual white hairs of Rowan’s beard where his scar branched along his jaw, up his cheek. “I think I’d enjoy it more with a guide.”
Rowan took that in, then raised his pint to tap against Briar’s. “Best finish our drinks, then.”
A voice rose above the crowd, a young man climbing atop the other end of the bar. He called for everyone’s attention with a braying laugh, ignoring Maebh’s venomous look for tramping his boots on her bar top. Briar recognized him. The harried man who’d bought the engagement ring a while back. Enough patrons noticed him to fall quiet. He announced he had something very important to tell everyone before they went back to their merriment, then turned to Aisling, the barmaid. He pulled a velvet box from his pocket, Briar’s magical signature hovering around it.
The young man jumped off the bar and got down on one knee, presenting Aisling with the ring. She looked ecstatic, pink cheeks turning red. Tear-fully, she accepted, and her new fiancé rose to place the ring on her finger.
A tickle of joy and heartache went through Briar. He’d sold those rings, played a part in this joining of hearts, and left a little mark on the community. But he also ached for the wedding he’d probably never have.
Briar took the last sip of his wine and nudged Rowan, who’d been watching him and not the engagement. “Ready to go?”
They emerged into the crisp autumn air, breath frosting in swirling clouds. Briar interlocked his arm in Rowan’s. The alderman looked briefly shocked but accepted the contact.
Vatii clicked her beak in Briar’s ear. “I thought Linden was your destiny, huh? What happened to that?”
He couldn’t answer without Rowan overhearing, so he shrugged her off. Vatii, who’d prefer he take up nunnery, huffed crossly. He didn’t know for certain who the prophecy referred to. No harm in a little flirting, either way.
In the streets, a group of friends all crowned each other with laurels of autumn leaves. A woman wove through the crowd with bundles of them over each arm. Rowan in tow, Briar asked her for two. She granted him one with leaves arranged in fiery colors and another in different shades of orange and brown oak. Briar took the former and held it aloft for Rowan.
“I think this one will suit you.”
Rowan hesitated, then bent his head. Briar rose on tiptoes to place the laurel, an undisguised excuse to casually touch.
“What are they for?” Briar arranged his own on his head. “Seems everyone’s wearing one.”
“They’re meant to grant protection from the woods.”
Briar raised his eyebrows. “I guess my sorry arse needs that more than most. How do I look?”
Rowan haltingly straightened Briar’s crown, then quickly withdrew his hand, chest inflating. “Good. You look good.”
Briar linked arms with him again, and they wound through the crowd, chatting as they went. There was a market propped up along the high street, orange lanterns hanging from the beams to make each stall an amber-lit hideout.
“I never properly thanked you for saving me,” Briar said. “In the woods.”
“No need.”
“What were you doing in there, anyway?”
“Ehm…” Rowan rubbed the back of his neck, casting Briar a sidelong look. “It’s a long story.”
“We have all night. We should get some food. You can educate me about other traditions. Or anything else that’s common knowledge to locals but could actually kill me.”
Rowan pointed to a stall from which the smell of fresh-baked bread floated toward them. “Berry buns are traditional on Saor ó Eagla.”
