He stares at me for a long beat. “Of course. I’ll let you rest.”
“Thank you.”
He turns for the door, pausing halfway over the threshold.
“I am…” he begins haltingly. His shoulder muscles ripple beneath the maroon fabric of his cloak. As if he is holding himself back, straining beneath the force of all the words he cannot—will not—say. “I am very relieved you’re alive.”
With that, he steps into the hall and shuts the door with a firm click. It isn’t until I am alone in my chambers, breathing deeply to regulate the mad tattoo of my heart, that I see the matching scorch marks marring the wood mantel over the fireplace.
They are burned in the shape of two large, precise handprints.
Chapter
Eighteen
I wake to the sound of muffled voices drifting through the floorboards. It takes me a moment to recall where I am and how I’ve come to be here. I blink up at the ceiling for a while, trying to get my bearings as the haze of sleep lifts.
I slept, deep and dreamless—the best night of rest I’ve had in ages. Rejuvenation hums through me, a buzz beneath my skin. I practically bounce from the bed to the window. Throwing the curtains wide, I unlatch the shutters and get my first glimpse of Coldcross in the light of day.
A sea of smoking chimneys and gray slate roofs greets me. The town house is set on a slight rise at the edge of town, giving me a prime view of the cobbled streets that wind, labyrinth-like, outward from a central marketplace. Crowds of people are already gathered there, perusing the many steaming food stalls, trading coin for new wares.
Sharp longing sluices through me. I want desperately to join the stream of shoppers, to lose myself for a time in the crush of browsing and bartering. I doubt I’ll get the chance. We are to ride at first light.
Or…we were.
Peering at the morning sun already climbing high in the cloud-draped blue sky, I wonder what’s forced the change in plans. Whatever it is, I’m grateful for it. The opportunity to wake fully rested, rather than being roused forcefully by the pound of a fist or the bark of an order in the dead of the night, is a rare gift.
In the saddlebags by the door, I find my clothing and—just as Soren promised—my lethally sharp little dagger. I’m also surprised to discover a store of food, a blue suede bag brimming with Llyrian coin, a silver-handled comb, and the scandalously sheer nightgown I’d worn at the Acrine Hold. My cheeks flame at just the sight of it, but I am quickly distracted by the unfamiliar item stashed at the very bottom.
My brows furrow inward as I pull it out to examine it up close. It’s a book. Quite an old one, given the state of its yellowed pages. It’s no larger than my hand, with an odd symbol gouged into its leather cover: four outward-facing triangles, each unique in design, coming together to form an intricate diamond.
The tetrad.
My fingertip slowly traces the topmost triangle. The Air Remnant. I recognize its familiar ethereal quality from the mark scored in my own flesh. Of its own accord, my hand drifts downward and slightly to the left, landing on the bolder furls that make up the Water Remnant. My teeth sink into my lip as my touch ghosts over the elegant swirls and coils. I fight an unwelcome flush as I remember the moment I did the same to Soren’s chest.
His sharp intake of air. His low hiss of surprise.
That is sensitive.
My hand jerks back from the engraving as though I’ve been scalded. After a fleeting glance at the other two Remnant symbols, I crack open the cover and scan the first page. Blocky letters adorn the parchment in faded black ink.
The Fated Tetrad: A History of Anwyvnian Remnants
Excitement blooms in my stomach. This is the best parting gift Soren could’ve given me. Far better than gold coin or a colorful dress.
The gift of answers.
I’m eager to devour its contents until every gnawing question has finally been put to rest, but I’m highly aware of the morning slipping by outside the window. Penn could walk in at any moment. Who knows how he’ll react, seeing me with a gift from the King of Llyr in my hands? He might confiscate it before I have a chance to read more than the title page. Given his recent combustible reactions, the whole book could go up in flames, reduced to useless ashes.
Answers will have to wait a bit longer.
I tuck the tome back into the depths of the saddlebag and cover it with the gauzy blue nightgown, promising myself I’ll find an opportunity to peruse it when I’m certain I’ll not be disturbed.
In a bid to avoid Dyvedi ire, I dress in my red gown and sturdy boots instead of the blue gossamer dress. As I shake out the wrinkled folds of my skirts, something falls to the floor with a clatter. The carved wood whistle. It feels a lifetime has passed since Penn gave it to me. I hold it in my hand for a long moment before I slip the leather cord over my head.
Following the sound of voices, I make my way down the stairs, toward the back of the house. The formal sitting room is empty. They’ve gathered in the kitchen instead, at a rustic wood table—Mabon, Uther, Penn, Jac, and two others I recognize from yesterday’s ride. All conversation screeches to a halt when I appear at the threshold.
“Um…good morning,” I say, trying not to fidget.