“Yes. Bonding with a mature beast can be—”
She leaps up, rolling her foot around and pacing the space, getting a feel for the boot’s fit.
“Challenging,” I continue, even though she’s giving me a very small percentage of her mental focus. “Opening to such ancient, profound beasts … It stretches the fae mind. Expected, given we flood with the senses of creatures many believe weren’t originally of this world. A process that sheds light on our deepest, darkest corners. On anymental baggagethat might be tucked somewhere, collecting dust.”
Given Raeve’s aversion to uncomfortable conversations about her past, I expect a physical reaction of some sort. A flinch, a shift of her eyes.
Something.
Instead, she snatches a strip of Pyrok’s jerky off the table and rips into it with her teeth, chewing through the mouthful as she jumps from foot to foot, scowling down at the boot. “Mental baggage is a hindrance. Got it.”
“Yes.” I frown. “Raeve, it can takecyclesfor a bond to harden. When it does, the rider has either tamed the dragon or the dragon has tamed them. Some turn as wild as their beasts and are rarely seen again—as good as lost to their loved ones.”
She sighs and stuffs the remaining jerky in her mouth, flopping onto the seater as she releases the bow and begins snatching the laces loose. “Justtoo big,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Disappointing. I thought we had it.”
She’s either not taking this seriously enough or she’s overly confident. Both have the power to swing around and tear a chunk off her.
“Raeve,please.” Her head whips up, gaze clashing with mine. Softening. “This is a serious concern. Especially with the coming falls.”
Her shoulders drop.
She offers me a small smile that fails to warm the shard of icy fear lodged between my ribs. “You havenothingto worry about. I’ll be back before the aurora drops. Maybe earlier.”
Overly confident, it seems. The bane of my existence.
“That is, of course, if I can make it up that pillar without being heard.” She hauls off the boot and flops it in the basket, sighing. “This is hopeless. I might just have to go up barefoot.”
Another tense squeeze of my hands. “There’s a leather craftsman fartherdown in the village. Used to make all Mah’s boots and jackets. I’m sure he can do a rush job.”
“No, I can’t risk it.” She threads her fingers back through her hair, pulling at the strands. “Líri might leave. I’ll miss my opportunity.”
Frowning, I glance at the stairwell to my left, struck by a thought.
I push off the wall and move across the room, reaching out a hand. “Come upstairs with me,” I murmur, and Raeve arches a brow.
“Upstairs?”
I nod.
Her lips twitch, and her dimplesalmostpinch in. “Eager as I am to continue where we left off, need I remind you there’s an untamed, slightly savage Moonplume perched above this lovely village?”
Impossible to repress the smile that fills my cheeks as I take her hand in mine and guide her up the stairs. “Nice to know you’reeager, Moonbeam, but I’m not taking you to the pallet.”
“Then where—”
I stop at the closed door to our right, twist the handle, and push, tugging her into the small suite that’s dressed in soft hues of pink, purple, and blue. That boasts a double pallet with a headboard of nuzzling dragons, its windows a glass quilt of powdery shades that cast the room in an adolescent glow … though I try not to look around too much. Try not to take it in.
Let it absorb.
Since Mah was old enough to shape her own home, she dreamt of having a daughter. She just never lived long enough to see Veya use this room. Nor to learn that she hates the color pink.
I release Raeve’s hand and make for the wooden chest at the pallet’s end, carved from the white trunk of a weeping wisp. The hinges squeal as I lift the lid, revealing the treasures within; cloaks, finely tailored tops, and leather jackets—all the same mossy green shade she had this building stained—embellished with pale-brown buttons and delicate trims.
“These were Mah’s,” I murmur, wedging open a small box to reveal a collection of cloak broaches and other precious adornments. Sentimental pieces she never had a chance to pass down to Veya.
That Veya is yet to allow herself the grace to accept.
Clearing my throat, I close the lid, set the box back in the chest, and lift a pile of garments, shifting them aside to reveal a pair of pale-brown boots—ankle high, the colk leather soft and pliable in my hands. Well broken in through the phases Mah spent during her youth exploring these ranges.
