His healing was strange, faster than any man had a right to be, but not painless. He moved slower on frosty mornings, and sudden movements stole his breath. She was there for all of it.
They spent their days in the gardens, talking and laughing, exploring corners of the grounds she’d never dared before. They avoided the front of the house, where Halverton lingered behind shuttered windows. The rest was theirs.
The cold set in properly. Autumn was almost spent. Frost edged the mornings now, whitening the grass before the sun could reach it.
From the bench beneath the bare apple tree, Aoife watched Cormac working with the gardeners. He moved more easily now, splitting logs, laughing at a joke one of them made, his voice carrying across the yard. When he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it aside, the sleeves of his shirt rode up, revealing pale silver lines snaking along his arms. The scars already looked a year old.
He finished the stack and came over to her, breathing a little heavier than she would have liked. She didn’t comment on it. The steady meals had filled him out. She could no longer count his ribs at a glance, no longer see every sharp edge beneath his skin, but weeks of forced stillness had taken their toll on his muscles, and she knew he felt the loss keenly.
He sat beside her, close enough that their knees brushed. After a moment, she slipped her fingers through his, anchoring him there.
“It will come back,” she said. “Strength, I mean.”
He gave a faint smile. “I know. I hate waiting. Hate feeling useless.”
She turned to him. “You’re not useless,” she said without hesitation. “Not to me.”
His smile deepened, softer this time, and he squeezed her hand in answer.
They sat in companionable silence, watching the gardeners’ work. All was finally right with the world. Briartha would make it through the winter. Ultán had seen to that. He’d worked tirelessly with the farmers planting winter-hardy species, not the delicacies the Eldrossi preferred, the rough winter greens and hardy root crops that would provide the sustenance they needed.
Cormac shifted beside her.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
Aoife glanced at him. There was a carefulness in his tone she hadn’t heard before.
“About what?”
“About what I am.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke. “How I’ve used it.”
Aoife said nothing, sensing there was more coming.
“I’ve been careless. Athraith are supposed to be companions of the Sheedar, and all I’ve used it for is to run fast, cause a little chaos and spy on you.”
“You weren’t spying on me.” Aoife gave an exasperated sigh. “You were watching out for me.”
“Lot of good that did.”
Aoife thought hard, pieces slipping into place. “You destroyed the loading cranes.”
Cormac looked sheepish. “Guilty.”
“You set exports back days.”
“I’d like to say that was the plan, but I was just angry and I wanted to break things.”
If that were true, he could have lashed out somewhere less dangerous than the harbour, surrounded by Eldrossi guards.
“I used to think my parents were overly serious about the whole thing. My da was always warning me to practice restraint. I’ve been seen far too many times by the villagers.”
“I did wonder if all of those were you. After seeing your ma’s colouring and your da’s size, I knew it must have been.”
“They hardly ever shift.” He rubbed his hands together. “I used to think it was caution. My da being careful, the way he always is.”
He shook his head slightly.
“It’s more than that. The villagers don’t see an animal in the woods,” he said slowly. “They see a warning. An omen. A sign that the Otherworld is watching them.”
