Reave starts to protest, then seems to change his mind as Kestrel’s hand actually goes for the teapot in question.
“She wasn’t bluffing, was she?” I ask as we quietly close the door behind us.
He tenderly runs a hand through his hair, as if remembering a former bruise. “It wouldn’t be the first thing she’s thrown at me. And she has impressive aim. The irony, of course, is that I’m the one who taught her how to throw.”
I smile wryly.
His hand finds mine as we make our way back into the quiet halls. It happens without any conscious thought—our fingers intertwining, my steps falling into sync with his—and then suddenly we’ve walked all the way up to his bedroom with barely a word spoken between us.
I hesitate at the door.
He lets go of me and casually slides his hands into his pockets. “You have more questions, I’m assuming.”
“Of course I do.”
“I won’t be able to sleep for a while yet.” He glances between the door and my guarded expression. “I thought we could talk more privately.”
My heart skips a few beats at the thought of being alone in his room with him, but I ultimately agree; the walls between us are finally beginning to crumble, and I don’t want to give him a chance to shut himself away and rebuild them before I get more answers.
I head inside first. He lingers in the hall for a moment, giving instructions to a servant, who then bows and hurries away. Clean clothing is brought from my room a short time later, and Reave sits at his desk and works while I disappear into the washroom, soaking away the last of the mud and trying to soothe and settle all the parts of me that ache, both literally and figuratively.
When I reemerge, there’s a small platter of food waitingin the same glass-walled nook we dined in the last time I was here. I don’t realize how famished I am until I catch sight of it.
I strongly suspect Reave hasn’t eaten anything lately, but he refuses everything I offer to bring him, his focus never lifting from the letters and notes he’s sifting through.
As my own food settles, I pour two glasses of some sort of crisp, sweet wine and carry them both over to his desk.
“You promised more answers,” I remind him, placing one of the glasses next to his hand as he continues to write.
His pen slowly stills against the parchment. “Ask away, then.”
I lean against the desk, considering for a moment before deciding on my first question. “I felt the air shift in your office earlier. It turned colder, heavier…that was magic?”
“Yes.”
“In the woods earlier, you told me that every time you call upon dragons or their magic, it risks making your curse manifest itself with more conviction.”
“And?”
“And…how much more can you risk, before you do something irreversible?”
His answer comes slowly, quietly. “I wish I knew. Arlo has never wielded magic, as far as I know, yet he had transformed entirely—however briefly—by the time he was five years old.”
“And Kestrel?”
“Has never shown signs of losing herself, but she’s also only used magic very sparingly. I suspect she has more in her blood, but she refuses to take any chances with it. And I don’t want her to.”
“You were all born with these talents and curses?”
He nods.
“So that horrific chamber under the Temple of the Mouren Flame…”
“Was sealed off by my grandparents before I was born. I’ve visited it only a handful of times myself, just to make sure nothing there is amiss. I never participated in any of the rituals or experiments that went on there. But whatever mutation or sickness it caused in our ancestors, as I said earlier, it…”
“Became hereditary.”
“So it would seem.”
