Halverton leaned forward and launched into the story again.
“It had Miss Aoife in its sights.”
James looked at Aoife. “Are you—?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, cutting off whatever sympathy he meant to offer.
“Only because I arrived when I did,” Halverton said, accepting the cup James poured for him. “Another moment and—well.” He shrugged grandly.
Aoife wrapped her hands around her own cup, letting the heat soak into her chilled fingers. She forced herself to sip. The tea was over-steeped. She barely tasted it.
He told the story again when Mrs Harrow brought more logs for the fire. Then again, when James returned to clear the tea things. With each retelling the creature grew taller, Aoife’s escape narrower.
Aoife stared into the fire, letting the words wash over her. She nodded when prompted, murmured polite agreement when he paused, and waited for an opportunity to excuse herself.
Halverton lifted his empty cup and frowned. “We should have something stronger. Brandy would—”
“That’s very kind,” Aoife interrupted, rising quickly, “but I should change out of these clothes. Thank you, my lord. Truly.”
Halverton looked pleased enough not to object. “Yes, yes, of course. Rest. You have had a trying afternoon.”
Aoife curtsied and left the drawing room before he could start the story again.
The corridor was dim. The skies outside were grey, no longer the heavy grey of a storm, but the pale wash of steady drizzle. Kit, standing discreetly by the door, stepped forward at once.
“Miss Aoife.” He offered a candle, already lit.
Aoife accepted it with a nod. “Thank you.”
As she climbed the stairs, the flame guttered in the draft, throwing long shadows ahead of her.
Behind her, faintly, she could still hear Halverton’s voice carrying through the halls, beginning the story all over again.
She climbed the stairs slowly, thoughts circling. Was the Athraith alive? She should go after it, take bandages, herbs, anything that might help, but she did not know where to begin. And what would Halverton think if she were caught wandering in the rain.
She was still thinking of that when she opened her bedroom door. The room was pitch-black. Clara must have forgotten to open the curtains. Aoife lifted her candle, the small flame spilling light over the carpet.
Then a voice from the dark said quietly, “Aoife.”
She nearly dropped the candle. “Curse the crows, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”
Clara’s shape emerged from the shadows, seated on the bed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know what else to do with him.”
“With whom?”
Clara stood. Aoife moved closer, raising the candle, and froze.
A man lay sprawled across her bed. The flicker of the candle caught the outline of his jaw.
“By the Shee,” she whispered. “Cormac.”
She moved the candle quickly, trying to see what was wrong, her eyes darting over his body. His face was pale and waxy;his shirt soaked through with blood. Clara took a taper and lit the candles by the bed, and the light showed a deep red patch spreading from his left shoulder.
Aoife grabbed a bundle of sheets and pressed them against the wound. “What happened?”
Clara shook her head. “Soldiers found him.”
Aoife’s head spun. “How did he get here? Why would the soldiers help him?”
