“What—what was that?”
Mor put a hand on my knee to keep me from rising, too.
“It—it was a tug. On the bond.”
Amren snapped, “Don’t you—wicked girl.”
Then Nesta was standing in the threshold. “What did you do.” The words were as sharp as a blade.
Lucien looked to her, then over to me. A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Nothing,” he said, and again faced his mate. “I’m sorry—if that unsettled you.”
Elain sidled toward Nesta, who seemed to be at a near-simmer. “It felt … strange,” Elain breathed. “Like you pulled on a thread tied to a rib.”
Lucien exposed his palms to her. “I’m sorry.”
Elain only stared at him for a long moment. And any lucidity faded away as she shook her head, blinking twice, and said to Nesta, “Twin ravens are coming, one white and one black.”
Nesta hid the devastation well. The frustration. “What can I get you, Elain?”
Only with Elain did she use that voice.
But Elain shook her head once more. “Sunshine.”
Nesta cut me a furious stare before guiding our sister down the hall—to the sunny garden in the back.
Lucien waited until the glass door had opened and closed before he loosed a long breath.
“There’s a bond—it’s a real thread,” he said, more to himself than us.
“And?” Mor asked.
Lucien ran both hands through his long red hair. His skin was darker—a deep golden-brown, compared to the paleness of Eris’s coloring. “And I got to Elain’s end of it when she ran off.”
“Did you sense anything?”
“No—I didn’t have time. I felt her, but …” A blush stained his cheek. Whatever he’d felt, it wasn’t what we were looking for. Even if we had no idea what, precisely, that was.
“We can try again—another day,” I offered.
Lucien nodded, but looked unconvinced.
Amren snapped from the dining room, “Someone go retrieve your sister. Her lesson isn’t over.”
I sighed. “Yes, Amren.”
Lucien’s attention slid behind me, to the various letters on different styles and makes of paper. That golden eye narrowed. As Tamlin’s emissary, he no doubt recognized them. “Let me guess: they said yes, but picking the location is now going to be the headache.”
Mor frowned. “Any suggestions?”
Lucien tied back his hair with a strap of brown leather. “Do you have a map?”
I supposed that left me to retrieve Nesta.
“That pine tree wasn’t there a moment ago.”
Azriel let out a quiet laugh from where he sat atop a boulder two days later, watching me pluck pine needles out of my hair and jacket. “Judging by its size, I’d say it’s been there for … two hundred years at least.”
I scowled, brushing off the shards of bark and my bruised pride.
That coldness, that aloofness that had been there in the wake of Mor’s anger and rejection … It’d warmed. Either from Mor choosing to sit next to him at dinner last night—a silent offer of forgiveness—or simply needing time to recover from it. Even if I could have sworn some kernel of guilt had flickered every time Azriel had looked at Mor. What Cassian had thought of it, of his own anger toward Azriel … he’d been all smiles and lewd comments. Glad all was back to normal—for now at least.
My cheeks burned as I scaled the boulder he perched on, the drop at least fifteen feet to the forest floor below, the lake a sparkling sprawl peeking through the pine trees. Including the tree I’d collided with face-first on my latest attempt to leap off the boulder and simply sail to the lake.
I braced my hands on my hips, examining the drop, the trees, the lake beyond. “What did I do wrong?”
Azriel, who had been sharpening Truth-Teller in his lap, flicked his hazel eyes up to me. “Aside from the tree?”
The shadowsinger had a sense of humor. Dry and quiet, but … alone together, it came out far more often than it did amongst our group.
I’d spent these past two days either poring over ancient volumes for any hint on repairing the wall to hand over to Amren and Nesta, who continued to silently, invisibly build and mend walls within their minds, or debating with Rhys and the others about how to reply to the volley of letters now being exchanged with the other High Lords regarding where the meeting would take place. Lucien had indeed given us an initial location, and several more when those were struck down. But that was to be expected, Lucien had said, as if he’d arranged such things countless times. Rhys had only nodded in agreement—and approval.
And when I wasn’t doing that … I was combing through more books, any and all Clotho could find me, all regarding the Ouroboros. How to master it.
The mirror was notorious. Every known philosopher had ruminated on it. Some had dared face it—and gone mad. Some had approached—and run away in terror.
I could not find an account of anyone who had mastered it. Faced what lurked within and walked away with the mirror in their possession.
Save for the Weaver in the Wood—who certainly seemed insane enough, perhaps thanks to the mirror she’d so dearly loved. Or perhaps whatever evil lurked in her had tainted the mirror, too. Some of the philosophers had suggested as much, though they hadn’t known her name—only that a dark queen had once possessed it, cherished it. Spied on the world with it—and used it to hunt down beautiful young maidens to keep her eternally young.
I supposed Keir’s family owning the Ouroboros for millennia suggested the success rate of walking away was low. It was not heartening. Not when all the texts agreed on one thing: there was no way around it. No loophole. Facing the terror within … that was the only route to claim it.
Which meant I perhaps had to consider alternatives—other ways to entice the Bone Carver to join us. When I found a moment.
Azriel sheathed his legendary fighting knife and examined the wings I’d spread wide. “You’re trying to steer with your arms. The muscles are in the wings themselves—and in your back. Your arms are unnecessary—they’re more for balancing than anything. And even that’s mostly a mental comfort.”
It was more words than I’d ever heard from him.
He lifted a brow at my gaping, and I shut my mouth. I frowned at the drop ahead. “Again?” I grumbled.
A soft laugh. “We can find a lower ledge to jump from, if you want.”
I cringed. “You said this was low.”
Azriel leaned back on his hands and waited. Patient, cool.
But I felt the bark tear into my palms, the thud of my knees into its rough side—
“You are immortal,” he said quietly. “You are very hard to break.” A pause. “That’s what I told myself.”
“Hard to break,” I said glumly, “but it still hurts.”
“Tell that to the tree.”
I huffed a laugh. “I know the drop isn’t far, and I know it won’t kill me. Can’t you just … push me?”
For it was that initial leap of utter faith, that initial lurch into motion that had my limbs locking up.
“No.” A simple answer.