Sárait turned from her pencil and parchment, eyes wide. “What did you do?”
“Who said I did anything?” Her voice was high. She cleared her throat before continuing. “He just gave me vague warnings. I must be loyal to the guard and not speak of their discussions and so on.”
“You mean like you’re doing right now?”
Clía sent her a cross look. “If I didn’t tell you this now, you would overhear some maid talking to a chef talking to a warrior’scousin or something. You know every whisper that is breathed in this castle.”
“You’re right.” Sárait raised a shoulder, her smile too smug. “And speaking of knowing everything, I noticed you and Ronan getting close recently.”
Clía balled up the fabric in her hands, throwing it in Sárait’s face. Murphy, seeing the flying fabric, bounded after it, colliding with Sárait’s chair. He tugged it from her hands. When she sent Clía an indignant look, she only shrugged. “Sorry, I thought that fabric might be useful to you.”
Sárait scoffed. “Yeah, useful in shutting me up. I’m not the only one who’s thought there might be something between you two. Someone said you might feel something for the man, but I quickly told them it was impossible. You have no feelings.”
The urge to throw another ball of wadded-up cotton at Sárait was hard to fight.
Sárait continued, not seeming to pick up on Clía’s violent thoughts. “I didn’t actually say that.” Her lips curled into a smirk. “I said your heart was taken by Niamh.”
Now it was Clía’s turn to scoff. “That woman will kill me in my sleep if I even blink at her. I’m afraid that romance will never blossom, no matter how beautiful she is.”
“Ah, but she’s not as beautiful as Captain Ronan Ó Faoláin, is she?”
That was debatable.
Clía measured the neckline of her design once more. There was nothing she didn’t share with Sárait—in their months at Caisleán, Sárait had become a constant and comforting presence in herlife—but Clía hadn’t told her about her kisses with Ronan. They felt too fragile to put into words, like the memory might fracture. Besides, she had shut down any notion of a future for the two of them. “Ronan and I are nothing but close friends. Can we move on?”
“For now. Speaking of romance, I’m meeting Kían tomorrow,” Sárait said, continuing to sew the hem she was working on.
Clía’s eyes widened, mouth dropping open. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?”
She just laughed. “Because I was waiting to see that expression.”
“Well, you’ve seen it—now explain.” Clía turned to her friend, her work forgotten.
Sárait laughed again. “As you know, I’ve been making progress—saying hello during your training sessions, waving in the halls, the occasional small talk. Turns out, it paid off. A few days ago, they approached me when I was making my way through the officer’s rooms. They were leaving a meeting with Kordislaen, and we had a full conversation.”
“A full conversation? Someone prepare the temple.”
“Be quiet!” Sárait laughed. “My conversational skills must be great, because they asked me to see them out when they leave for their mission tomorrow morning. Perhaps I’ll even get a goodbye kiss.”
“I’m so happy for you,” Clía said, pulling her into a hug.
Sárait indulged her for a moment before pulling away. “Okay, enough of this. We need to actually make progress on this tonight before I have to return to work. Kordislaen has me doinglaundry and tailoring for him that he’s been putting off. Maybe I’ll even get to see his evil lair.” Sárait raised her brow.
“I’ll be out patrolling—with little training on how to do that, mind you—so if you find anything interesting, tell me in the morning.”
“Oh, please let him leave out some embarrassing letter, or really anything to prove he’s human,” Sárait pleaded. “I’ve been here long enough, and I’m almost convinced he’s a creature from Tír Síoraí sent to torment us.”
Clía rolled her eyes. “That’s it, no more reading for you.”
“You speak as if you are immune to the stories surrounding us. Stories hide truth deep in their words. You’ve faced the beasts of the Ghostwood—some argue they’re only myth. But we know. Púcas, kelpies, and bean sídhes—they’re out there.”
That haunted wail that echoed in Clía’s mind. The woman—bean sídhe—by the stream. She would never forget the keening pitch of her cry.
Clía realized Sárait was waiting for her to say something. “I prefer to focus on what’s in front of me.”
Sárait scoffed. “Funny coming from you—you’re the most fanciful person in this decaying castle.”
“What do you mean by that?” Clía asked.
