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Despite the ache in my side, amusement almost reaches the connection. I contain it.

“Distance may weaken the bond,” I say. “Physical contact strengthens it. Pain strengthened it further.”

“Can it be closed?”

“I believe so.”

“You believe many things before breakfast.”

“There may be records.”

“In the ancestral library?”

I set down the empty cup. “Possibly.”

Fiona studies me. “Briar says humans are forbidden from that wing.”

“Briar is correct.”

“Then we have reached another problem.”

“No. We have reached a door.”

I leave the bed.

Pain gathers around the scar, but my legs remain steady. Fiona watches closely, prepared to intervene.

“You should rest,” she says.

“I have rested.”

“You collapsed yesterday.”

“Today I am standing.”

“That is not a healer’s standard for recovery.”

“It is mine.”

I dress behind the carved screen. By the time I emerge, Fiona has packed the remaining rirzed and roots into her leather case.

“You are bringing medicine to the library?” I ask.

“I am bringing it wherever you insist on walking.”

I fasten the house ring. “You may return to sleep.”

“I am coming.”

“I did not invite you.”

“You announced that we are looking for records concerning a connection inside both our minds.”

She pulls the wooden comb from her braid, smooths the loose strands, and secures them again.

“Try stopping me.”

The private corridor beyond my chambers curves through the oldest portion of the stronghold. Neptherium bands guard its sealed rooms. Portraits of former Lords and Ladies observe us from dark alcoves.