Clara still hesitated, duty tugging at her.
“Please,” Aoife said softly.
After a moment, Clara perched on the edge of the bed. Her hands stayed folded in her lap until Aoife pressed a peach into them.
Cormac cleared his throat. “Thank you… for… everything,” he said, voice still rough. “I know it wasn’t easy.”
Clara shook her head. “Aoife did most of the work.”
“Aoife nearly fainted,” Aoife muttered.
Cormac gave her a fond, exhausted look.
Clara’s eyes softened as she met his. “You gave us a fright.”
He huffed a laugh that pulled at his bandages. “Not the first time I’ve done that,” he said. “Won’t be the last.”
Clara’s brows rose. “Maybe try not to make a habit of it while you’re in this house. We have enough trouble.”
“That,” Cormac said, wincing as he adjusted his position, “I can promise.”
It was awkward and a little stilted. A small, careful exchange between two people who had survived an experience none of them had the words for.
Aoife watched them with quiet relief.
They ate companionably, the three of them gathered close around the tray. Aoife cut a slice of peach and handed it to Cormac. Clara peeled the boiled egg before offering it across. Cormac accepted both with a grateful, embarrassed half-smile. At one point Clara brushed a crumb from the blanket, and Cormac murmured an apology he didn’t need to make. It was domestic, strange, almost tender. Nothing like two nights before, nothing like the house outside this room.
It took far less effort to persuade him to eat that morning. Cormac managed half the bowl of porridge before setting the spoon down.
Clara nudged the small plate of fruit toward them. “Try these,” she said, tapping the cluster of strange green-yellow berries.
“What are they?” Aoife asked. They’d been presented on several fruit platters since her arrival, but she’d never worked up the nerve to try them.
“Brindleberries. Cook had to order cuttings from Velmora. They don’t grow here, but the gardener has them in the hothouse.”
Cormac eyed them warily.
“They’re good, I promise,” Clara smiled.
Aoife picked one up, turned it between her fingers, and frowned. “It looks poisonous.”
“It’s not poisonous,” Clara said, exasperated.
Cormac leaned against the pillows. “Has the gardener eaten any?”
Clara hesitated long enough for Cormac to raise an eyebrow.
Aoife set the berries down.
Clara rolled her eyes. “Suit yourselves.”
She popped the last few into her mouth with a triumphant little crunch.
At the same instant, a sharp knock sounded at the door.
All three froze.
Aoife exchanged a startled look with Clara.
