“No. I needed to know where you were. I needed to know you were safe.”
“I don’t want your worry.” Annoyance pounded through my head, joining the cacophony of my otherworldly hangover. He’d given up the right to worry about me when he chose Eala over me. When he left me alone with Cathair’s merciless ministrations for four long years. When he told me I was nothing to him. No one. “I can take care of myself.”
“Can you? Last night I found you sprinting through the forest like the hounds of the Morrigan were snapping at your heels.” He paced toward me, then stopped a few inches away. Too close. Not close enough. “You were terrified of something. You jumped out of your skin when I touched you.”
“Maybe that’s because I don’t welcome your touch.”
The words sounded crueler than I intended them to, but they had the desired effect. Rogan’s blue-green eyes narrowed to furious slits. He rocked back on his heels, crossed his arms over his chest.
“Tell me what task the queen has set you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not stupid,” he growled. “I know you weren’t hanging around that shadowy fort picking flowers. Just tell me. Maybe I can help.”
Mother’s warning pricked brambles through my mind.
“You’re right—I do have a task. But it’s a secret.”
“We don’t keep secrets. Not from each other.”
“Wedidn’t. That was before you—” The old wound throbbed. “Before you left Rath na Mara. You don’t need my help wooing your swan princess. And I certainly don’t need your help fulfilling Mother’s demands of me.”
“You always did before.”
My hurt must have shown on my face—Rogan’s river-stone eyes widened in apology. “Changeling—”
“How about myname, Rogan?” I threw his words back at him with all the venom I could muster. “Or are you the only one who deserves that privilege?”
I didn’t wait for him to respond. Taking the winding stairs two at a time, I fled out into a sullen afternoon.
My aimless steps had nearly carried me to the greenhouse when I thought of Corra’s bargain. If I was honest, I had little desire to pour my time and effort into the garden—it would be thankless work. But Corra had been right. We needed food and supplies. And I needed something to occupy my time between full moons. Otherwise I was going to murder a prince.
Or cry.
I wasn’t sure which was worse.
Wind whipped the lough to froth beneath a ragged sky. Mud squelched at my boots, and cold seeped through the seams of my woolen cloak, but I didn’t care. I was nearly to the grotto when my eye caught on a scrap of black. I bent, reaching for the bedraggled feather wedged between two clumps of weeds.
Even dull and wet and missing half its barbs, the slender vane was beautiful. I glanced at my fingers, thinking of the first feather I’d found—the prick of its quill. Then I looked at the sky. Ravens chattered in the wood, and rooks roosted beneath the eaves of the dún. But these stiff pinions were nearly as long as my forearm.
The drizzle became a downpour as I dropped the feather, feelingmutinous. I’d never expected this to be simple. But back at Rath na Mara—back in therealworld—Iknewthings. I knew a claíomh swung at the wrong angle with too little force would cripple a man instead of kill him. I knew milk thistle, when brewed into a tea, could counteract the effects of many mild poisons. I knew Mother loved me, and her love was stronger even than her hate for the Folk.
But here, in this moldering haunt of a dún atop ruinous lands at the edge of Tír na nÓg, I knew nothing. I was full of answers without knowing any of the questions. A maple seed spinning endlessly through the air, not knowing where I might land, only knowing I could never return to my branch.
I swiped moisture from my eyelashes, then marched into the greenhouse.
The cracked glass and busted metal did little to keep out the elements. Water pattered on my head as I trailed my fingers along one of the dilapidated tables. Dirt clung to my hand, smelling of manure and rotten leaves and rich clay. This had been good dirt, once—the kind of dirt that nourished life. The kind of dirt that made green things flourish and grow.
At the end of the greenhouse, a creeping vine had been left to spread. I didn’t recognize its spiny leaves or long sharp thorns. Its flowers were past season, petals hanging like shrouds. I stared at the plant. Something venomous cast a shadow over my heart. My foul mood blossomed.
I thought of Rogan, whom I’d always loved but who’d left me.
Mother, who praised me but then set me a nearly impossible task.
Eala Ní Mainnín, my sister, a beautiful stranger, whose life was valued higher than mine.
My Greenmark, which turned hedgehogs to dust and gray mares to wild trees.
