My heart tripped and snatched at my breath for balance. The room lit with a sudden swell of my Flame, and I caught the soft, knowing gleam in Caelan’s eye before he bent his head to kiss me.
“And what about Sorcha?” I whispered when he pulled back. My Flame still pulsed between us, and in its light I could see the way his brow tensed, could see that he was wavering. “Please, Caelan. You said it yourself; I’d do anything to protect her.”
It felt manipulative to speak his sister’s name, but we both heard the unspoken implication.You would do this. You would find a way over the borders if it were Brigid’s life at risk.
“If I tell you I’ll give it some thought,” he said slowly. “Will you promise to get some rest for me?”
I smoothed a careful thumb beneath the hollow of his eye, where the skin was thin and dark. We’d shared exactly one deep sleep since Tanner’s death, and in the nights since then, he’d almost always been awake when I woke from my own fitful rest. He had been out all day today too, his shift overlapping with Brennan’s – and not for the first time. I could see how drained he was. More than that I couldfeelit, with such potency that I had to wonder if I hadn’t quite managed to call back every ember of my magic after we’d last lain together.
“Willyouget some rest?” I asked softly.
Caelan’s laugh was a mere echo of its usual glory; a humourless huff of breath. He turned his head to brush his lips to my palm, then he turned onto his back, taking me with him so that I lay half-draped across his chest. His heartbeat beneath my head was a familiar lull, and it took only a moment for the pulse of my Flame to fall into sync with it.
“I’ll try.”
Chapter Eleven
The Letters
When Caelan left for the morning hunt, he swore he’d have an answer for me by the time he returned. But whether or not that answer was Yes, I’d made up my mind. I was getting my cousin out of Stormsby.
Only, Sorcha was nowhere to be found the next morning.
I thought little of it at first — and perhaps that in itself was stupid. Tanner was barely a few days in the ground, and the McAlpines had yet to even don their mourning wear. Last night, Sorcha and I had had a swift, sobering conversation about the work to be done for Johnny’s wake before we’d parted ways for bed. And then, unbeknownst to my cousin, of course, everything had changed while she slept.
If I hadn’t been looking for her, I would have assumed she’d risen early to get a head start on readying the tavern for the wake. But the kitchen was empty; not even the giant pot of porridge on the stove, where Sorcha would always set it when she was the first to rise. I swallowed against an oily little swirlof unease, and set about gathering the water and oats, flicking my fingers at the stovetop to light it with a spark of flame. With the porridge on a low and sticky simmer, I opened the back door and peered out into the dim grey morning. All was as I’d left it; the clothesline was bare, and the stable door was shut and bolted. My heart slid into my throat as I shut the door and hurried once more from the kitchen. I forced my steps to slow as I made my way upstairs, as though I could trick myself into staying calm; as though acknowledging any of the awful possibilities swirling in my skull would bring them to pass. If I stayed calm, I imagined, I’d find Sorcha curled up in her bed, having slept in after our long day of consoling and caring for Ciara.
She was not in her bed.
But the bed was made, sheets tucked neatly beneath the pillows. If someone had taken her while she slept, I tried to tell myself, they would not have stopped to fix her bedding with one corner folded back invitingly – the way I’d taught her when she first arrived atThe Mage and Rose.
But whatever part of my brain supplied that logic, it was clearly far removed from that primal part of me that operated on Flame and fear alone. My descent from the attic was neither calm nor slow. I half-tumbled down the stairs and tore through the small lobby to trip into the tavern with a great crash of the door against the wall. Someone gave a small scream at my abrupt entrance, and I was so incredibly tense that the sound ripped my Flame forth, my fingertips set alight for a split second before I managed to stuff them behind my back.
Ciara took no notice of my flaming hands. She sat on a bar stool with a palm splayed to her chest, breathing hard. Her eyes were red and swollen, but wide with shock.
“Have you seen Sorcha?” I blurted.
“She’s out the front,” Ciara said, eyes still blown wide.
The air whooshed out of me, and I sagged forward, catching myself on my knees as I muttered a small prayer of thanks to the Dagda. When I straightened, Ciara was watching me witha soft, sad look of understanding.
“Scary times we live in,” she said quietly.
My heart sank; what a greeting I’d offered to this grieving daughter.
“Yes,” I said. And then; “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t be sorry for looking after your family, Roz. I think–” Her voice cracked, but she frowned slightly and tried again. “I think my father would want his passing to at least be a lesson learned for Stormsby. We need to look after each other, now and always.”
I hovered in the doorway a moment longer, unsure what to do or say until Ciara tilted her head at the door, strawberry sleep-mussed waves spilling over her shoulder.
“Go on. Check on her.”
I spotted Sorcha the moment I stepped outside; a small figure silhouetted against the dark grey sky. She was all the way down the path, standing on the other side of the old kissing gate and drifting back and forth. Pacing, I realised as I drew closer. She froze when she caught sight of me, then promptly resumed, faster now even though she wasn’t going anywhere. By the time I’d edged through the kissing gate, she was practically jogging past me.
“Everything alright?”
