“No. I managed to get her to drink some broth last night. She refused anything else. She’s been talking in those half riddles all day.”
I dragged a hand through my hair, freeing strands from my braid. “Did anything happen to trigger—”
“I don’t know. I check on her every few hours.” Nesta clenched her jaw. “I was gone for longer yesterday, though.” While she trained with Amren. Rhys had informed me that by the end of it, Nesta’s rudimentary shields were solid enough that Amren deemed my sister ready for tonight.
But there, beneath that cool demeanor—guilt. Panic.
“I doubt anything happened,” I said quickly. “Maybe it’s just … part of the recovery process. Her adjustment to being Fae.”
Nesta didn’t look convinced. “Does she have powers? Like mine.”
And what, exactly, are those powers, Nesta? “I—don’t know. I don’t think so. Unless this is the first sign of something manifesting.” It was an effort not to add, If you’d talk about what went on in the Cauldron, perhaps we’d have a better understanding of it. “Let’s give her a day or two—see what happens. If she improves.”
“Why not see now?”
“Because we’re going to the Hewn City in a few hours. And you don’t seem inclined to want us shoving into your business,” I told her as evenly as I could. “I doubt Elain does, too.”
Nesta stared me down, not a flicker of emotion on her face, and gave a curt nod. “Well, at least she left the room.”
“And the chair.”
We exchanged a rare, calm glance.
But then I said, “Why won’t you train with Cassian?”
Nesta’s spine locked up. “Why is it only Cassian that I may train with? Why not the other one?”
“Azriel?”
“Him, or the blond one who won’t shut up.”
“If you’re referring to Mor—”
“And why must I train at all? I am no warrior, nor do I desire to be.”
“It could make you strong—”
“There are many types of strength beyond the ability to wield a blade and end lives. Amren told me that yesterday.”
“You said you wanted our enemies dead. Why not kill them yourself?”
She inspected her nails. “Why bother when someone else can do it for me?”
I avoided the urge to rub my temples. “We’re—”
But the doors to the library opened, and I snapped my barrier of hard air down entirely at the thud of stalking footsteps, then their sudden halting.
I gripped Nesta’s arm to keep her still just as Lucien’s voice blurted, “You—you left your room.”
Nesta bristled, teeth flashing. I gripped her harder, and threw a new wall of air around us—holding her there.
Weeks of cloistering Elain had done nothing to improve her state. Perhaps the half riddles were proof of that. And even if Lucien was currently breaking the rules we had set—
More steps—no doubt closer to where Elain stood at the window.
“Is … is there anything I can get for you?”
I’d never heard my friend’s voice so soft. So tentative and concerned.
Perhaps it made me the lowest sort of wretch, but I cast my mind toward them. Toward him.
And then I was in his body, his head.
Too thin.
She must not be eating at all.
How can she even stand?
The thoughts flowed through his head, one after another. His heart was a raging, thunderous beat, and he didn’t dare move from his position a mere five feet away. She hadn’t yet turned toward him, but the ravages of her fasting were evident enough.
Touch her, smell her, taste her—
The instincts were a running river. He fisted his hands at his sides.
He hadn’t expected her to be here. The other sister—the viper—was a possibility, but one he was willing to risk. Aside from talking to the shadowsinger yesterday—which had been just about as unnerving as he’d expected, though Azriel seemed like a decent enough male—he’d been cooped up in this wind-blasted House for two days. The thought of another one had been enough to make him risk Rhysand’s wrath.
He just wanted a walk—and a few books. It had been an age since he’d even had free time to read, let alone do so for pleasure.
But there she was.
His mate.
She was nothing like Jesminda.
Jesminda had been all laughter and mischief, too wild and free to be contained by the country life that she’d been born into. She had teased him, taunted him—seduced him so thoroughly that he hadn’t wanted anything but her. She’d seen him not as a High Lord’s seventh son, but as a male. Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him.
Elain had been … thrown at him.
He glanced toward the tea service spread on a lowlying table nearby. “I’m going to assume that one of those cups belongs to your sister.” Indeed, there was a discarded book in the viper’s usual chair. Cauldron help the male who wound up shackled to her.
“Do you mind if I help myself to the other?”
He tried to sound casual—comfortable. Even as his heart raced and raced, so swift he thought he might vomit on the very expensive, very old carpet. From Sangravah, if the patterns and rich dyes were any indication.
Rhysand was many things, but he certainly had good taste.
This entire place had been decorated with thought and elegance, with a penchant for comfort over stuffiness.
He didn’t want to admit he liked it. Didn’t want to admit that he found the city beautiful.
That the circle of people who now claimed to be Feyre’s new family … It was what, long ago, he’d once thought life at Tamlin’s court would be.
An ache like a blow to the chest went through him, but he crossed the rug. Forced his hands to be steady while he poured himself a cup of tea and sat in the chair opposite Nesta’s vacated one.
“There’s a plate of biscuits. Would you like one?”
He didn’t expect her to answer, and he gave himself all of one more minute before he’d rise from this chair and leave, hopefully avoiding Nesta’s return.
But sunlight on gold caught his eye—and Elain slowly turned from her vigil at the window.
He had not seen her entire face since that day in Hybern.
Then, it had been drawn and terrified, then utterly blank and numb, her hair plastered to her head, her lips blue with cold and shock.
Looking at her now …
She was pale, yes. The vacancy still glazing her features.
But he couldn’t breathe as she faced him fully.
She was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen.
Betrayal, queasy and oily, slid through his veins. He’d said the same to Jesminda once.
But even as shame washed through him, the words, the sense chanted, Mine. You are mine, and I am yours. Mate.
Her eyes were the brown of a fawn’s coat. And he could have sworn something sparked in them as she met his gaze.
“Who are you?”
He knew without demanding clarification that she was aware of what he was to her.