“Well?” I’d said, expressionless.
“Your terms are acceptable,” he’d muttered, tense and formal, before stalking back toward the dún.
But he’d come down the next morning in old breeches and shirtsleeves. I’d given him a list of specific—and frankly difficult—tasks, which he’d completed without complaint and with annoyingly little effort. And so we’d worked together in uneasy near silence, braving slushy snowmelt and bracing frost to assemble the wreckage of glass and metal into something resembling a greenhouse.
When I wasn’t outside, I was roaming Dún Darragh’s halls, searching for the library Corra had alluded to but was otherwise unwilling to discuss. Not that the infuriating sprite was particularly forthright aboutanything.
“Can’t you give me a hint?” Yet another hallway had ended in a cobwebbed chute that looked like it led straight to Donn’s dark realm, and I was annoyed. “This pile of rocks is a death trap.”
“Thispile of rocksboasts many nooks and crannies, a glorious maze,” Corra responded archly. “With secrets and knowledge designed to amaze.”
“You can’t rhymemazeandamaze,” I countered, kicking yet another omnipresent black feather into the shadows. “Just one teensy hint. Please? I’ll pick you a bunch of my fresh-grown lavender.”
Corra wavered. “In every row of posies, one flower does not fit. Ask me no more—that’s it!”
One flower does not fit.I mulled the words over for days, examining every carven sigil that resembled a flower, every tapestry woven with a bouquet.
I almost passed by the sagging mantelpiece in a dust-choked antechamber without a second glance. But the light from my lantern caught on a curving edge and turned it marigold, and something soft as new lilies and yellow as spring whispered against my senses. The contours of the rosette carved along the mantel were as dusty as the rest of the room. I brushed it off, curious at first and then eager, as a row of little flowers appeared above the cold hearth. Full, delicate flowers that bloomed as I ran my fingers over them.
In the end, it was so obvious. The thirteenth rosette had fewer petals.One flower does not fit.I touched it, felt it give. Pushed until it clicked. The grate fell away, and the hearth opened onto a set of steps, curving up into darkness.
I stared, mouth parted, as surprise and elation and the barest edge of fear twined inside me. Part of me had never expected to actuallyfindanything. Half the fun had been the promise of secrets long concealed, the notion that I might find something precious hidden away.
Without a second thought I ducked beneath the mantel andclimbed the staircase, coughing against ancient dust and the dense, brittle smell of old paper. Beyond, the alcove was little more than a cramped niche cut into stone; my dim lantern kissed all three walls and brushed golden wings against the ceiling. Unmarked books were crammed in rows of shelves and stacked on the single narrow table. Everything was so covered in dust that a statue standing in the corner looked veiled in ashes. Reverently, I touched the spine of one of the volumes. Then I sneezed violently.
“Corra!” I shouted to the air. “Can’t you do something about all this dust?”
Corra obliged by picking up every mote of dust in the alcove and dumping it squarely on my head. I choked, blind and half-deaf as I tried to clear stinging particles out of my eyes and shake grit from my hair.
“You uttermenace,” I hacked, retching. “I’m going to flay you alive!”
“Catch us if you can!” sang Corra, ruffling my grime-streaked hair before fleeing the alcove.
But I was too intrigued to stay annoyed for long. Brushing my hands off as best I could, I lifted down one narrow volume, then another. Their brittle leather spines creaked as I pried them open. Loose, hurried handwriting filled the pages in ink that had faded to brown. I squinted at the words, struggling to make sense of them. It took me long minutes to realize they were written in the ancient tongue. These books—journals?—were trulyold, from a time of legend, when living gods walked Fódla and humans commonly interacted with the Folk.
I was suddenly glad for all Cathair’s dull, seemingly impractical lessons. I scanned the unfamiliar script, searching for some word, some phrase I understood.
—find her. I know—my love. Lost—Tír na nÓg.
It wasn’t much—hardly a full sentence. But I thought immediately of the story Rogan had told me before we’d left Rath na Mara, of the man who was said to have built this place. The humanwarrior who’d become obsessed with a Gentry maiden he could not have. I’d thought it legend and nonsense.
But by Amergin’s staff, what if it was all true? A smile crept onto my face. I had to tell Rogan—he’d never believe this.
I shoved one of the notebooks down my tunic, grabbed my lantern, and dashed out into Dún Darragh’s echoing halls. It was late but not terribly so—Rogan would still be up. Halfway into a bottle of mead, most likely. But up.
I took the winding stairs to his tower room two at a time, ignoring the sweat prickling against the dust still caked along my neck. I was gasping by the time I reached the landing, but I barely paused before bounding through the door standing ajar to Rogan’s chambers.
Only to find Rogan lounging, chest-deep in soapy water, in a huge copper bathtub across the room. For a stricken moment, I stared—at the candlelight pouring gold across his hair and chest, at the herb-scented steam ghosting heat into the room, at the surprise glossing his river-stone eyes. His fingers twitched, staccato on the metallic rim. His expression changed, a bemused grim sliding toward something more intent.
Gods, Ihadto learn how to knock.
“You’re bathing.” I stated the obvious. My breath still rushed in my lungs, although now I wondered whether it wasn’t for a different reason. I angled my body toward the door. “I should—”
“Seriously consider joining me.” His provocative words captured my shocked gaze. He leaned his head back against the tub and examined me from beneath his gilded eyelashes. Humor curled his lips. “You look like you could use it.”
Of course—I was still covered head to toe in centuries-old dust. I cursed Corra and then doubly cursed myself for rushing here without changing. Without washing.At all.
“I was exploring,” I said in a rush, still half-breathless. “Beyond the room with the tapestries, I found a stairway—a secret stairway—and beyond there was a kind of library, only it was all personal accounts—journals, I think—”
