She returned to her chair and grabbed her needle.
***
THE QUIET OF THE FABRIC ROOM GAVECLÍA TIME TO THINK.
Sárait couldn’t have taken poison accidentally. Someone did this to her. Someone in the castle.
If she found them, they might be able to save Sárait.
“Ronan said you might be here.” Clía turned to see Ó Connor standing in the doorway of the fabric room. “He’s a good kid.”
Clía put her needle down, placing her project on the table in front of her.
“Still sewing, I see.” Ó Connor nodded to the fabric in front of her. “Making anything good?”
Clía smiled sadly. “Sárait and I had an idea for that pattern I was working on back in Álainndore.”
“The infamous dress. I couldn’t tell if you hated or loved that design, with how much you went on about it.”
“Right now, we’re inching closer to love, but that might change tomorrow.”
Ó Connor stepped into the room, leaning a hand against the table at which she sat. “How are you?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. Her fingers ran across the hem of her shirt, the texture safe and soothing. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. I saw Sárait in the infirmary and she was sostill. And there was nothing I could do. My friend is dying, war is coming, and I’m just sitting here, paralyzed.”
A warm hand rested on her shoulder, and she found herself being pulled into Ó Connor’s arms. This time, she held nothing back. She let the tears flow freely down her face and onto his shirt.
She had been on edge for so long, trying to understand a world she had no map for. It was like struggling against a never-ending current. She wastired.
He held her tightly until her eyes went dry.
“All you must do is what you can,” he said, leaning back so he could look her in the eye. “You can’t be responsible for anything else. It’s too heavy a burden to carry.”
She wiped her face, brushing away the tear tracks that burned her cheeks. “What if all I’m capable of isn’t enough?”
“It will have to be,” he replied. “Now, you need rest. Your sewing can wait until the morning.”
He was right. She needed energy if she was to keep fighting.
When she returned to the study, there was one person there. Niamh stood like a statue, eyes closed as she leaned against a bookshelf.
Her voice broke the silence. “How’s Sárait?”
Clía didn’t bother to ask how she knew it was Clía who’d entered the room. “Stable. Why do you care?”
Niamh opened her eyes, her hardened gaze falling on Clía. “You think I’m so heartless as to not care that she was poisoned? She worked here. We all knew her.”
“You’re right, my apologies.” Clía sighed. “Today has been long.”
“I think that’s something we have in common.” Niamh pushed off from the bookshelf. “What happened this morning—it shouldn’t have gone down like that. But you and Kían fought for her. While we stood and watched.” Clía didn’t know what to say, but she was spared from having to speak as Niamh continued. “That’s what we’re all training to do. To help the innocent. You’re a good warrior, and a better person than most.”
The compliment settled in Clía’s chest. This girl who had shown her nothing but animosity was praising her.
It didn’t erase what had happened to Sárait, or Niamh’s actions over the past months. But it lit a lantern in the darkness of her thoughts.
“Thank you. That means a lot.” She forced her mouth into a smile, aiming for the polite princess she used to become so easily. Niamh’s face continued to hold the severe form it always did, but Clía saw the crack in her stone exterior.
And it gave her hope.
