“I didn’t ask you to do that!” I shouted at the air. “It’s cheating!”
A muffled laugh climbed the walls and spiraled toward the ceiling. “Whatever works, chiardhubh, works!”
“Who are you talking to?” Rogan asked from behind me. He threw down another armful of firewood, then unpinned his river-stone brooch, forearms flexing as he hung his mantle over a bare sconce. “I’m impressed. How did you get the fire going?”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I just shrugged.
“I cheated.”
Rogan chuckled. In the firelight, his eyes were gemstones. “Whatever works, changeling, works.”
Chapter Six
Dirty-dishwater light splashed across my face. I scrubbed at gritty eyes and wished for more sleep.
Last night, Rogan and I had briefly explored the fort. We’d found a dank rabbit’s warren of hallways with their roofs caved in and staircases ending in empty air, festooned in moldy tapestries and rat droppings. We’d eaten a cold meal of bread, salted fish, and pickled vegetables, Rogan bolting down two days’ worth of my supplies in one go. We laid the bedrolls—which I’d also thought to pack—in front of the fire and slept beneath our mantles. Bad dreams had plagued me—mud-caked vines latching around my wrists and dragging me underground, a carven face laughing as I smothered to death in the dirt.
I kicked off my cloak and looked over at Rogan. He was still sleeping, his cheek pillowed on one hand and his golden hair mussed. I stared at him a moment too long; in sleep, it was easy to see the echoes of the boy I’d once loved.
But much as I wanted to hate him for the man he’d become, he wasn’t making it easy. Last night, after we’d snuffed the torches, banked the fire, and lain down, his voice had found me in the dark.
“You’re very far away, changeling,” he’d murmured.
I’d bit my tongue and curled deeper into my mantle. There had been a time when we’d slept on top of one another, piled like puppies for warmth and comfort. But we’d been children then. Even with an arm’s length of distance between us, I’d been able to sense his warmth, smell his sharp male scent of sun-warmed rock and vetiver. I’d ached to move closer to him, to fit myself against his chest and pillow my head on his arms. But I’d stayed where I was, silent and unmoving. Perhaps he would think I was already asleep.
He hadn’t said anything else.
I dragged my eyes from his face and shoved my chilly feet into boots. I reached for my pack, searching for a leftover crust of last night’s bread.
Something sharp pricked my thumb. I snatched my hand away, hissing as a droplet of dark green blood squeezed from the pad of my finger and dropped to the floor. Where it landed, a tiny black flower sprouted.
I glanced at Rogan, who stirred but didn’t wake. I ground the blossom beneath my boot. Then I reached more carefully into my pack.
It was a feather. Black as the space between stars, its glossy vane gleamed with a hellebore luster. I twirled it, watching it glide and flash in the dim. It reminded me of a raven in flight, or a night before dawn.
More vile Folk magic.
I tossed it onto the banked fire, sucked blood from my thumb, and snuck out into the cold morning.
Dingy sunlight painted the estate in shades of gray. With its back against steely moors, the fort looked out across a lough surrounded by fields. They might once have held crops or livestock but now stood empty and brown. A rocky trail coiled down the lee side of the hill, winding through an orchard of gnarled apple trees. I craned my neck, glimpsing a cluster of outbuildings. A stable, maybe; a dilapidated shed; and—
The glint of dull sunlight on distant metal. The gleam of broken glass. The burnt tones of dying foliage draped around thick arching windows.
Agreenhouse.
Dusty longing climbed my throat. After Rogan left Rath na Mara, I’d had no one. I used to sneak into the royal greenhouses between training sessions, seeking the companionship of growing things. I’d loved the warm, damp kiss of the humid air, the clusters of hothouse flowers pressing rosy faces against the glass, the heavy smell of dirt and mulch and growth. The gardeners had taken pity on me, taught me how to mix compost with dirt, how deep to push seeds, how to train vines onto stakes, how to prune fruit trees. They’d marveled at how quickly seedlings took root when I planted them, how early roses bloomed when I fertilized them, how large vegetables grew when I weeded around them.
I had a gift, they’d said. They were right, of course. But I hadn’t told them about my Greenmark. They wouldn’t have understood, and I needed their companionship like a flower needs the sun.
Then, one day, Cathair had summoned me to his grim, vulgar chambers. The druid’s workbench had been cluttered with herbs and tinctures I’d recognized but always avoided: black walnut, foxglove. Sweet rue, belladonna.
“Your Folk stain is not a hobby, but a weapon,” he’d said without preamble. “What use is growing silk blossoms out of granite, or roses blue as birds’ eggs? You should be learning which plants are dangerous, which plants will make you deadly.”
I’d balked. “I don’t see what’s wrong with learning how to grow all things.”
“You were made of bloodroot and mountain laurel, little witch.” He’d laughed and tossed me a vial of something murky. “You were made to destroy.”
His words had taken root inside me and poisoned the love I had for green, growing things. I’d never returned to the greenhouses. But perhaps, if there was one at Dún Darragh—
