Page 111 of A Thief Among Fae

Finnian sticks his head out of the other window. “Already?”

“I spent the night shoveling graves. I could use some ‘relaxation’.” Desmond opens the carriage door and motions him out.

Finnian smirks as he obliges. ”I suppose Cyn can use your lap, then.”

“If she were tired, I’d give her the whole seat, as a true gentleman would.” Desmond raises a brow, daring Finnian to retort.

I pretend to be preoccupied with Min’s twitching form so neither of them sees my amused grin. Finnian shakes his head, heading off toward Enbarr.

Desmond climbs atop the roof, then returns with a book. “Are you tired?” he asks me. It’s voiced with concern that takes me aback.

“Not yet. I should really take my turn on the horses.”

“You were injured in the fight. You deserve rest,” he replies. Then he sits beside me as the carriage lurches into motion. He opens the book to a marked page, and silence settles again, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves and wheels.

The carriage bumps, and his shoulder brushes against mine. Sparks tingle along my skin. I look anywhere but at him. If only I had something to do. Every quickened heartbeat when we touch will kill me before the tomb can.

I peer at his book. “That’s the runic writing I saw in the barrow’s abandoned fae city.”

He nods without looking up. “The old language of the Hollowlands is lost to many. So are most languages before the common tongue. I know four of them, but I’m more proficient at reading than speaking.”

“Four?” I knew he was bookish, but it’s difficult to mesh this Desmond with the one who slaughtered fomorians and dragged their corpses like it was just another day in the Prince of Death’s life.

“For years, I wanted to study at the College of the Arcane to access their library. When I told you at Norwynhald that I don’t tell stories, I was being particular with my semantics.”

As fae often do, I think.

“I’m not inclined to tell stories about myself because they’ll always be manipulated by my emotions, like looking at my reflection in a tarnished mirror. Yet no one can dispute that stories hold power. They’re a testament to history, and the College of the Arcane’s collection is unparalleled.” The faintest smile curls his lips. “Or so I’ve heard.”

It’s hard to decide what surprises me more about his admission—that he made it at all, or that he’d rather be a scholar than a prince. It reminds me of the forsaken dream he confided in me. He wishes he could be free of his duties and travel the world, just like me.

“Yet you’re entangled with assassination attempts and a tomb raid, all to protect your people,” I reply, a gentle prod in hopes he’ll confide more in me. I still don’t know his Gift, nor what he wants in Olin’s tomb. He had translated a riddle about an arrow in one of his books, but what would he want that for?

Desmond turns the page as his smile dies. “It would seem these are the circumstances I’m stuck with.”

“Screw the circumstances. Go to that college after this. Bet the assassins won’t know how to find you there, anyway.” I know how impossible it sounds, but I want him to follow his dream. I fervently feel that he deserves to.

He stills, pensive.

I try to stifle a yawn, but fail and lean my head against the wooden wall. “Where I was born won’t stop me from getting the life I want,” I murmur, drowsiness making me candid. “Even if it takes me years to learn how to defend myself, I’ll find a way to join the adventurers’ guild.”

“And that’s one of the few sentiments I admire about you,” he softly says.

Few. I scoff. “You’re terrible at giving compliments.” Even if the tone of his voice suggested he meant it as one.

“I could count on one hand the number of people who I have even a shred of admiration for,” he replies, like that’s supposed to make it any better. “And perhaps. . .”

“Perhaps?” I ask, raising a brow.

His hands tighten around his book. “Perhaps I admire more than a few things about you,” he quietly says, not meeting my gaze.

My chest squeezes, and any retort I planned to make dies on my tongue. What else does he admire about me? Maybe I should ask, but I’m afraid to. Why does that scare me?

We fall silent. I look out the carriage window but see the same monotonous expanse of forest. “Wake me if there’s something interesting outside.” I close my eyes, but I can’t get comfortable. If I lean back, every pothole the carriage clambers over bumps my head against the wall. After a rough bang, I give up and slump forward against my knees.

“My shoulder is yours,” he suddenly says.

“What?” I jerk up, almost whacking my head on the lantern.