“Cormac,” she said, “I…”
He reached across and rested a hand on hers. “We received the food. That was your doing, wasn’t it?”
Aoife nodded.
“I knew it.” He smiled. “You proved me wrong.”
“Not really,” she said. “I thought I was making progress, but it’s all strategy and performance to him. He didn’t do it to be kind, nor because it was the right thing.” The truth of her wordsstruck her then. It wasn’t a reward; it was leverage. He knew she’d do anything to get food to the village.
“Maybe. But whatever you’ve been doing, it helped. That’s what matters.”
She wanted to believe him, but the truth was she wasn’t changing Halverton. He was changing her.
She remembered the hidden barrel in the woods, but said nothing. Cormac was too weak to hear it now. Later, maybe.
“You’ll heal faster if you eat,” she said softly. “Please. There’s no one in this house who needs it more than you.”
He hesitated, then reached for the spoon. “All right,” he said, voice low. “If it’ll stop you worrying.”
“It won’t,” she said, but her tone softened. She watched him eat. The simple act of it unfurled the tight ache in her chest.
His movements were slow and deliberate as he ate a few spoonfuls of porridge. Aoife watched him, helping when his shoulder stiffened. His ribs were too visible beneath his shirt, the same jutting lines she’d seen beneath the Athraith’s hide.
She knew she couldn’t keep him here long. Too many risks. While he was here, she would make sure he ate.
Cormac caught her watching him and smiled faintly. “Still wearing that bracelet, then?”
She touched the strip of braided leather around her wrist. “Of course I am.”
“I’m surprised,” he said. “My knot-work’s dreadful. Thought it’d have fallen apart by now.”
“It’s stronger than it looks,” she said.
He looked down, still picking at his cuff. She sat so close that her arm warmed from the heat of him, his sleeve brushing faintly against her. Was Clara right? Had what she felt for Cormac long since outgrown mere friendship?
The morning passed in small fragments of quiet talk, brief laughter and long silences. She coaxed him to eat in intervals, little by little. By early afternoon, the tray was finally clear.
Cormac drifted in and out of sleep, the colour slowly returning to his face. When Aoife changed the poultice that evening, the wound looked clean, with no heat, no swelling, and no sign of bad blood.
She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, letting her hand rest there a heartbeat longer than necessary. For now, at least, he was safe.
***
Morning light slanted through the shutters by the time Aoife opened the door for Clara.
“I assumed you’d want breakfast up here again,” she said, eyes flicking toward the bed.
Cormac was propped against the pillows, blanket pulled to his waist, skin still too pale, but sitting upright, breathing easier.
Aoife smiled. “What would I do without you?”
Clara set the tray on the bedside table, and Aoife closed the door behind her.
“Stay a while,” Aoife said. “Eat with us.”
Clara blinked. “I shouldn’t. There’s work downstairs.”
“You’d normally be getting me ready at this hour,” Aoife pointed out. “So there’s nowhere you need to be.”
