“I’ll be tried if I’m caught with these,” I whisper.
“Another Old World rule we’ll seek to overturn,” Desmond says quietly, more to himself than to me.
I frown at the comment, wondering if him and his brother are aligned in Hirovale’s sentiment. Do they want to see magic restored to humans? Because that’s what this gesture is certainly alluding to.
I glance down at the oak slab and pen resting in my lap, shaking my head in denial as I swiftly cover them both with the cloth.
“Think of the person you wish to write to and envision them in your mind,” Desmond explains quietly, “when you write, keep their likeness in your thoughts.”
“Stop,” I whisper in a panic.
“Alexis…”
“No,” I reiterate, “take it back, Desmond. I will be tried.”
“By whom?” he shrugs again, “who will tell? Certainly not me or my brother. Nor the group following behind us. Write in secret, if that makes you feel more comfortable.”
“There’s no way.”
“Perhaps not,” he nods in agreement, “or… perhaps it will work. We will not know until you try.”
I hastily push the bundle into the bag at my hip, removing it from eyesight and out of mind. My fingers skim Golem’s jar on instinct, feeling his vibration almost instantly and lending me a sense of comfort.
“One more thing,” Desmond turns to me in his saddle.
He gives me a hard look, his features sharpening into the man that I used to avoid in the halls of Castle Bardot.
“The Prince has informed me of your intentions surrounding our brother…”
I scowl at the Master Informer.
“You will not engage, Alexis. Leave Troy to us.”
“Desmond,” I huff at his side, “if only.”
Desmond looks at me with a serious glint in his eyes.
“Do not engage,” he repeats, “I will follow you day and night if that is what it takes,Lady.”
I glare at him in open defiance. “I don’t care for you.”
Desmond gives a cool laugh, his lips curving into a small smile, “fine by me.”
I roll my eyes and reach for Millie’s reins on the saddle, thinking of the Leviathan group that accosted ours in the Plains.
“Tell me about them.”
Desmond stares at the road ahead in consideration.
“You know I met the Prince,” I continue, “Prince Yiannis.”
“The middle of three,” he nods.
“Tell me about him,” I repeat, “about his summoning. I watched his hairmove, Desmond. What was that?”
Desmond stills at my side, his dark brown eyes looking at me in genuine question. “What do you mean you watched his hair move?”
“I mean that his hair wasn’t hair. I figured it was an aspect of his summoning.”
