“Try the histories of Noctere today.” Dorian winked. “They’re far more compelling.”
This time the boy didn’t hesitate. As he departed through the wet grass, Dorian and I turned after him. I had not expected the fatherliness, the warmth.
“A squire,” I said. “One who can read.”
“Wholikesto read. Even rarer.”
“He seems far too soft for this court.”
“The greatest miracle of all.” I caught Dorian watching me in my periphery. “I should hope to keep it that way.”
I turned toward him. For the first time in weeks, the open wound between us didn’t feel so tender. “How do you propose to do that? Will you keep him back when we travel to Highmark?”
“Highmark will be a great honor. Might be he’ll have his first kiss.” He rubbed his fingers together. “But I won’t let him near the Killing Fields.”
A jag of envy struck through me. Just a few years ago I’d been Finch’s age, but I’d never had that softness. Softness like that made you a target. And here I was, standing in front of a man who told me I was the emotional type.
Dorian seemed to sense where my thoughts had gone. Or maybe he saw the tightening of my mouth. “I’m like you, you know.”
Now that’s bold.
“I’ve only ever gotten to my magic through emotion,” he said.
“And that can’t be changed?”
“Once you’ve built a road, why hew a new path?”
“Smell seems easier than emotion.”
“It is, and it creates a less intense magic.” Dorian gestured after Finch. “Is that what you want, a matchstick of magic?”
Fuck no.I curled my toes in my boots with a squelch. “But we’re back to the same place we started. I can’t make myself fear death while we stand in this flower-tickling rain, you looking like a wet dog.”
His lips curled, just a little. “Who says you have to fear death?”
“That’s how you got me there, with Rhiannon?—”
“Because I needed something potent that day. Something potent enough to save your life. Death made you a blade.”
“And what else but death could make me a blade?”
He raised his hand. With a flick of his fingers, a gust of rain blew straight into my eyes. “I have a few ideas.”
Apparently Dorian hadannalsof ideas for how to humiliate me.
“Come at me,” he said after he blew rain into my eyes. “If you can.”
Happily. I’d been dreaming of knuckling his pristine, smug face for weeks.
For the next half hour I ran at him. And every time I did, a gust of wind threw me to the side or knocked me on my ass. Pain raced through my hips, up my spine. My teeth clacked as my head bounced, and he hadn’t so much as jutted out an elbow.
But he didn’t just want to deflect me; he wanted to destroy me by a thousand irritations.
He sent rain up my nose. He blew it under my collar, sending slimy wetness down my spine. He slapped my braid in my face until both cheeks stung like when I was a girl who’d gotten slapped on each side for stealing a meat pie from the pub. I’d gotten five slaps on each cheek, those big man hands not holding back until I apologized.
The wind blew, but Dorian didn’t move. The only signs of life were his fingers and his horrible mouth.
“Can’t imagine how you survived the Dip.” He procured an apple from somewhere in his leathers, rubbed it on his wet jerkin, and bit into it with a crunch. “You’re like a toothless puppy with worse balance.”