Rowan finally emerged, face wan and shaky. Briar volunteered to walkthem both home. They stopped at Sorcha’s house first, where she gave her brother a hug and made him promise to call her tomorrow.
They walked in silence after. Some color returned to Rowan’s face, but his hands still shook. It was dark and the streets were deserted. Briar snuck his hand into Rowan’s and held it all the way to the cottage.
At the door, Rowan turned with a look of awkward trepidation on his face. “You can come in. Don’t know if I’ll be good company, but—”
Briar understood. “We’re friends first. I could make you a cup of tea.”
In the kitchen, he turned on the gas lantern and gathered mugs, putting two bags of chamomile in each. Though the kitchen wasn’t his, the motions felt as habitual and automated as they did at home.
Rowan hovered next to him, accepted his mug, and led them back to the living room, where he sank into the sofa. Briar curled up beside him, their knees just barely touching. Rowan’s hands dwarfed his mug, and Briar thought about the gentleness he knew the man for, how profane it seemed to ask those hands to do what they’d done tonight, even if it had been to help someone. Wordlessly, Rowan dropped one hand to his knee, palm up in invitation. It was a relief to be asked for comfort instead of guessing at what kind was welcome. Briar set his tea on the coffee table, shuffled closer, and twined his hand through Rowan’s. He dropped his head against Rowan’s shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
Rowan said, “I am now, yeah.”
“I have to tell you something.” Through his guilt, Briar recounted the events that had led him into the forest and the bargain he’d made with the tree. He showed Rowan the mark on his arm and asked the question that plagued him. “Do you think all this could be my fault?”
“No, Briar.” Rowan’s tone was resolute. Fond. “You’ve nothing to do with it. Though it wasn’t your brightest idea, making bargains with trees, you’d have to take more than a branch to anger the wood like that.”
Briar wasn’t so sure. If his presence by Rowan’s side subverted a preordained destiny, could that throw off the balance of magic in Coill Darragh? Though he couldn’t know for certain, something about the possibility niggled at his instincts. It felt true.
He needed to ask Niamh. He considered asking Rowan or his family for help with the cost of the orchid pollen, but it would be graceless to ask for money after everything they’d already done for him. No. He’d take on extra Christmas commissions to cover the cost. Besides, he’d promised Gretchen he’d look into this. He didn’t want to let her down.
“Should we go investigate it, then? See what’s hurting it?” he asked.
Rowan looked uneasy. He touched the spot on his chest where his scar started. “I’d prefer to leave that as a last resort, if you take my meaning.”
“You think it would hurt us?”
“If it had to.”
Briar looked up into Rowan’s worried eyes. “How do you know?”
Rowan’s gaze turned inward. “Just instinct, I suppose.”
Briar supposed he understood. A similar intuition was coalescing inside him, too. Telling him he really ought not be here.
Rowan yawned, tipping his head to lean against Briar’s.
Briar said, “I can stay the night or head home after—”
“Stay.”
So Briar, ignoring his instincts, stayed.
In the week that followed, Rowan got pulled into town meetings to discuss what could be done about the attack on Orla. These, he lamented, went nowhere, because it was a forest and could not be reasoned with. This much he conveyed when he could see Briar for lunch, which was less often than they liked. Briar pulled all-nighters, rushing through commissions and working on designs for Linden.
The first proper evening he had to relax was a Saturday. He went to Rowan’s cottage, intent on being wined, dined, and rolled into bed. Instead, it pissed rain on his walk so that he arrived half-drowned and shivering like a small dog.
At the sight of him, Rowan couldn’t contain his laughter. “C’mere to me and we’ll dry you off.” Rowan, in his pajama bottoms and oversized—even for him—jumper, could not have looked cozier.
So Briar stripped out of his clothes and exacted vengeance. Without warning, he crawled under Rowan’s jumper to leech his body heat. Vatii flicked off her wings, showering him in rainwater for good measure. Rowan didn’t so much as shudder at the touch of Briar’s cold hands, just gathered him up and went to the sofa, unzipping the hood of his jumper enough so that Briar could poke his head through.
“How’s your ghost been?” Rowan asked.
Briar hadn’t seen Gretchen very much, and she was often irritated with him when she did appear. But a fire in the hearth crackled and spat over a new log, giving off radiant heat, and Rowan himself was a campfire. It was difficult to worry about Gretchen. Briar’s shivers abated, but he didn’textract himself from Rowan’s jumper. He couldn’t help but steep in it. The hearth’s smoky smell mixed with the shepherd’s pie baking in the oven, all warm, earthy herbs and braised meat. Rowan’s rich voice in his ear as they murmured in conversation about their days, their jobs. The silky comfort of Rowan’s hands wrapped around his lower back.
He’d never had anything like this. He warred with himself over how badly it scared him, and how much he didn’t want to let it go. Nothing so solid or comfortable had ever lasted in Briar’s life, and this was no different. Destiny called. A city across the channel sea awaited him. And his time kept slipping through his fingers, like the magic he struggled to call upon with every spell and enchantment cast.
