“I’d take you to the Kettle, but I think you’ve had enough shocks for one day.”
The Kettle?
“You’re welcome to use my personal bathhouse instead,” he continues before I can ask, gesturing toward the spring. “It’s big enough for two.”
“It’s big enough forten, but I still have no plans of sharing it with you.”
“Fine by me. I prefer my bathwater sans cobwebs.”
I scoff.
Grinning, he tugs a lock of my hair. I reach up, fully prepared to slap his hand away again, until his grip changes from playful to…something else. As do his eyes. They shift over my face and an altogether different emotion moves in their depths as he tucks the tendril gently behind my ear, his fingers a fleeting brush against its pointed tip. His voice pitches down an octave. “Perhaps I could make an exception. This once.”
My mouth parches. Undeterred, I bluster on, “I’m surprised you’d allow me alone in the bathhouse at all. You seem determined to delay my leaving Hylios. How do you know I won’t slip through the portal at the first possible opportunity?”
His lips press together. For some reason, I get the sense he is trying not to laugh. What is amusing about this particular situation, I have no idea, and Soren does not seem inclined to share. Without another word, he turns and walks away.
Fighting the bubble of annoyance expanding inside me, Itrail after him in resolute silence. I swear, the man’s moods are more mercurial than the tides he commands. And far less predictable.
My stride falters when he does not climb the stairs onto the terrace but, instead, turns down a narrow side path that snakes out of view. I’m not sure he means for me to follow until he pauses to hold aside a large palm frond that blocks the way forward. His lips twitch as I slink past, careful not to invade his space.
Just around a bend, we come to a tall glass enclosure tucked beneath an arbor of creeping wisteria. I think it’s a greenhouse at first, but the ceiling is open to the sky and in lieu of garden beds or potted plants there are several scarred wooden perches, along with elevated feeding troughs and water bowls.
An aviary.
As I watch, a bird of the deepest blue-black sweeps down from the boughs and settles onto one of the perches, its talons scoring deeply. Another raven, this one the darkest shade of scarlet, is already inside, its elegantly plumed beak tucked under one wing. It pauses its preening as we approach, cocking its head in tandem with the more recent arrival. Two sets of canny eyes never shift from Soren as he strides into the enclosure. I hang back, watching as he gently removes the thin scrolls of parchment tied to the birds’ proffered legs.
My eyes fix intently on the scarlet raven. I have seen that unique coloring before. A breed distinct to Dyved. An emissary of the Fire Court. I wonder who sent it here, and what the small roll of parchment it ferried all this way contains.
A response from Pendefyre?
One about me, even?
Whatever the missive, it makes Soren’s face ripple withdispleasure and his shoulders go stiff. His gait is hesitant as he makes his way back to me.
I wait for him to speak. To share, though he has no real cause to do so. His private correspondence is no business of mine. Still, my fingers twitch with the effort to keep from snatching the scroll from his grip. My lips press together to contain my curiosity.
Such efforts at self-discipline are rendered ridiculous only seconds later when Soren reaches down, grabs my hand, and presses the parchment into it.
My eyes jerk up to his, startled.
“This was sent to me, but it’s you who should answer,” he says softly. Almost solemnly. “It’s your reply he wants.”
With that, he takes his other scroll and disappears down the path, leaving me alone with only the rainbow-hued fyrewisps and glossy-eyed ravens for company. The paper in my hand feels like it weighs a thousand pounds as I raise it to my eyes. Only a few sentences are scrawled across it in messy, hurried handwriting.
Penn’s handwriting.
The sight of it makes my foolish heart vault straight up into my throat.
Soren,
What do you mean, Rhya is in Hylios with you?
I expect a more thorough explanation is forthcoming—more than the three scribbled lines of snark you were benevolent enough to send last night.
Though, frankly, I am less concerned with how she came to be there than whyshe remains after a full day in your company. I cannot think of a single good reason she would choose to stay there.
Not of her own volition.