“Noted.” He stared at me for a moment longer, and then he blew out a breath as he turned to his family. “Now what?”
“I think we start by opening that.” Lydia pointed one delicate finger at the envelope.
A dull ache simmered behind my eyes, and I pinched the bridge of my nose. Evers and their fucking envelopes. At least the last letter I’d opened from one of them had saved me from a fate I hadn’t even predicted. I doubted this one would do the same.
Rorik picked it up and broke the seal with ease, and his tight gaze flew over the contents in a matter of seconds. The paper crinkled as his fingers shook. Then he thrust it to Seville. “It’s an invitation to a coupling fete in seven days’ time.” She snatched it out of the air and devoured the formal, looping handwriting that dominated the page. With a long breath, she handed it to Lydia. Both her and Clesian’s faces blanched.
“They are known to host them from time to time.” Lydia shook her head. “A perfect excuse to invite the family and a potentially powerful threadmender into their home.”
“We’re not going,” Rorik hissed as he began to pace again. His agitated gait ate up the room in a few long strides, and the floorboards beneath his feet groaned as he stalked back and forth.
“Do we have a choice?” Seville asked cautiously, her stare tracking Rorik’s movements.
“I doubt they’ll take no for an answer.” Clesian ran a hand over his shorn hair before leaning back into the sofa. “It’s only addressed to Rorik, Seville, and Edira, though.”
A twinge of relief coursed through Lydia’s expression. “The girls will be safe.”
“I would’ve thought you’d want them to attend,” I said as I finally sank into one of the spare armchairs and tucked my feet beneath me.
“The Embergraves think they’re superior to everyone else because they have the most direct bloodline tying them to the first Ever. They view marriage into that family as a gift beyond measure, even more so when a child is involved.” Clesian’s gaze cut to Rorik, who had stopped before the bay window to brood. “But they are not known for their kindness. Throughout the years, Evers have flocked to Stormsend and created a community of their own, hoping that one day one of their children will grab the attention of one of the Embergrave descendants and elevate them to a life of self-imposed royalty.”
“My sister...” Lydia pursed her lips, stealing a quick glance at Rorik before returning her focus to me. “She never really explained what happened. She and my mother went to one such fete purely to maintain a modicum of civility between our houses, and she came back pregnant.”
“That is irrelevant,” Rorik grumbled. He abandoned the window to stand behind the couch and gripped the polished frame so tight his knuckles turned white. “The point is those fetes are dangerous. And Zeverin will stop at nothing to get to Edira if he thinks she can cure him.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek for a moment. “So we go and show him. We show everyone at the fete that you’re not healed.” They all looked at me, and I shrugged. “I didn’t cure you. I still haven’t figured out how to do it now, even with Rorik’s magic.” Despite the healing pool’s best efforts, exhaustion had found purchase in my bones, and I settled deeper into the chair with a yawn. My eyelids threatened to close.
Rorik’s eyes narrowed as he studied me. Seville reached for one of the teacups and drained it, clearly not caring that it was cold. “That may be true, but we’re still healthier than most. Likely even the Embergraves. You might not be able to cure blight, but you certainly gave us back some lost time—and I bet any Ever would do anything to have that same gift.”
I nestled farther into the chair. Yawned again. “Maybe.”
“We’ll discuss more later. Edira needs to rest.” Rorik moved toward me and, with annoying ease, slipped his arms beneath my body and lifted me from the chair.
“I can walk,” I mumbled with not nearly enough protest. Rorik only raised a brow, and I resisted the urge to toy with his twin dermal piercings just to irritate him.
No one said anything as we left. He carried me up the stairs, never looking down to meet my eyes, and I quite frankly didn’t care. I was tired. And that headache was becoming bothersome, and the prospect of sleep was too tantalizing to deny. So, I didn’t argue when he breezed into my room and drew the curtains shut. Or when he tucked me gently into bed. I only stilled when he brushed a loose strand of hair out of my face.
“Sleep,” he whispered, his fingers still lingering against my cheek.
I fell asleep with the memory of his touch still warming my skin. And I didn’t wake up once.
Fourteen
When I awoke that evening, Rorik was there. He was sitting in an overstuffed chair with his legs stretched out before him and his ankles crossed. Head tipped toward the rafters, he stared at the ceiling and the cacophony of ivy strands and leaves wrapping the wood. He’d changed his clothes since this morning, and his shirt was wrinkled around the collar as if he’d been tugging it out of frustration. Loose pants of what appeared to be a soft fabric clung to his legs, and his feet were bare. A candle had been lit on the nightstand beside him, and its orange glow competed with depthless shadows for dominance over his stoic expression. Even in casual clothing, he was a sight to behold.
“That was the best nap I’ve taken in ages,” I said, and his gaze snapped to me.
“Glad to hear it.” There was a tightness to his words, and I shifted in bed so that I could sit up and face him head-on.
“Something wrong?”
“Outside of the obvious?” He reached for a glass I hadn’t noticed sitting beside the candle. The crystal tumbler was almost empty, the tawny liquid nothing more than a shallow puddle barely covering the bottom.
“I suppose that was a dumb question.” I sighed and picked at the sleeves of my cardigan, pulling them up my palms.
He caged the drink between his hands. “How long have you been sick?”
It was a question, and yet he delivered it like a command. “What do you mean?”
