She needed to think.
With no thought for where she was going, simply away from the house, away from him, Aoife started walking. Her mind replayed the moment over and over again, the kiss, his hands on her back, his hair between her fingers. Her stomach churned, throat tightening. What had she done?
Why had she kissed him back? Why had she run her fingers through his hair? And why had it felt good to do so?
Playing his game was the only possible way she was going to be able to change him, and he could change; he was changing. Wasn’t he? She’d pleased him, and he’d sent food to the village.
Only now she had to go on pleasing him, and the thought of what that might mean made her nauseous.
She stopped, hand resting on a tree, and bent over, taking deep breaths to steady herself.
Was it too late to take it back? Probably. And even if she did, if she refused him, then this was all there was. And she wasn’t sure she could survive that.
It was only when she looked up that she saw she’d reached the hawthorn.
It was all their fault, the Shee. They were the reason she was trapped here. They, with all their power, refused to do anything to help the people who venerated them.
“Why are you allowing this?” the words came out as a strangled whisper. She trembled at the thought of challenging the Shee, but now that she had started, she found she could not stop.
Her voice rose, steadier now. “You play tricks on us for pulling up a pignut too roughly, curse anyone who cuts down your trees, but you say nothing while they burn villages? They mock you. They chop down your forests to build their houses. Why don’t you do something?”
The words broke from her in a shout. She snatched a loose stone from the ground and hurled it at the trunk. “What does it take to make you listen?”
Her legs gave out beneath her, and she sank to the ground, face hot, hands trembling. She dug her fingers into the soil, desperate to hit or hurt something. The grass was damp beneath her palms, the only sound her own breathing. After a few minutes her heart rate slowed, the cool earth helping to ground her.
From behind her came a soft whimper, low and uncertain.
Aoife looked up.
The Athraith stood a few paces away, half-hidden by the shadows of the trees. Its eyes were black as pitch, watching her.
She drew a slow breath and lifted her hand. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “I won’t hurt you.”
The creature stepped closer, its hooves near-silent on the grass. When it reached her, it lowered its head and nuzzled her palm. Its breath was warm against her skin.
“Did the Shee send you?” she asked.
The Athraith tossed its head. She almost laughed. “No, then,” she said.
It folded its long legs and settled down on the ground beside her. She hesitated, remembering the story Cormac had told, of how they carried people off. Slowly, she sat down too.
“I can’t go with you to the Otherworld,” she murmured.
The Athraith made a snort that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Aoife smiled, resting her hand on the Athraith’s warm muzzle, her breath steadying as its soft exhale washed over her fingers.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
The creature blinked at her, unbothered.
She huffed. “No, I suppose I’m the one who shouldn’t be here.”
The Athraith shifted its weight, folding itself more comfortably beside her. Its coat shimmered in the dappled light, darker than night. Aoife reached out and let her fingers drift along its neck. Its hair was softer than she expected, and warm like a living hearthstone.
“What would Halverton say if I told him about you?” she murmured. “That I’ve gone mad.”
The Athraith flicked an ear.
