As part of our bargain, Corra insisted Rogan and I celebrate Imbolc. One of the four high holy days of the year, Imbolc was traditionally celebrated with song and silence. I didn’t know how we three—an invisible sprite Iwishedwould be silent and a pair of brooding warriors who definitely couldn’t sing—were supposed to celebrate.
I’d asked Rogan to split a graceful rowan trunk lengthwise—now it burned merrily in the hearth. Corra conjured candles from nowhere to drip from every available surface, encasing the hall in amber light and filling the air with the sweet scent of beeswax. I strung soft milky snowdrops over the mantel—the first of my winter flowers to blossom—as Corra rocketed along the ceiling and hollered an Imbolc song I’d mercifully never heard before.
Sun and star, the fire is lit
Around the hearth we all will sit
A branch for me, a branch for thee
Soon winter’s chill will springtime be!
I covered my ears and glared at the ceiling. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a truly accursed singing voice?”
“Frequently, in fact,” said Rogan from the top of the staircase. My gaze jolted toward him. “Although usually only when I’ve attempted to actually sing.”
Corra blew raspberries as Rogan sauntered down the steps, swinging a jug of mead and trying to look like he hadn’t already been drinking all afternoon.
“Pfaugh!” spat Corra from behind me. I jumped as a moon-faced gruagach carved onto the wall stretched its bandy legs. “He looks like hay.”
“Hay?” I hissed out of the corner of my mouth. “That’s the best you can come up with?”
“Yes, hay.” Corra performed a saucy little dance. “After it’s been eaten and swallowed and digested and—”
“Yes,yes.” I turned my back on them. “Don’t forget you’re the one who insisted we have this stupid little ceremony. It wasn’t my idea of fun.”
“The villagers have yet again outdone themselves.” Rogan gestured expansively, taking in the greenery, the candles, and the crackling fire. Corra cackled. I forcibly ignored them. “But remind me why we’re doing this? I’ve never known you to be particularly religious.”
I shot another surreptitious glare at Corra, who was gleefully picking their toenails on the wall. “Let’s call it homesickness. Is there mead in that jug?”
There was. Rogan poured me a cupful, and for a long moment we drank in almost companionable silence. But I couldn’t ignore how close to me he sat on the edge of the hearth—how his thigh bumped against mine when he leaned over me to pour himself another drink. I tried not to inhale, but his smell—like sun-warmed metal and spicy musk—invaded my senses with dogged familiarity. My fingers twitched toward my wrist, but of course my bracelet of brambles and nettles was gone.
“What do we do now?” He swirled his drink. “Swap stories or something?”
Morrigan,anythingbut that. Intrusive memories scorched me: deft bargains. Suggestive banter. Tragic tales.
I downed my drink.
“The prayer, the prayer!” squawked Corra, flitting across the hearth in the guise of a flock of seagulls.
I sighed. “Let’s do an Imbolc prayer.”
Rogan barely glanced at me as he poured us both more of the amber mead, but I dared a look at his face. His eyes looked glazed, bright spots of red standing out on his high cheekbones. He was already drunk. Disappointment thundered through me, unexpected and sour, limned with the barest edge of concern.
I forced myself to remember Rogan wasn’t my problem. He wasn’t myanything.
We bridged the space between us with our left arms. Rogan’s fingers brushed my palm before circling around my wrist, and my pulse jumped. Rogan’s eyes flicked to mine, shiny in the low light. For a moment, we sat like that, our hands clasped and our gazes colliding.
It was he who broke the silence, intoning the prayer traditionally said on the holiday.
“An echo of winter still lies on the earth,” he said, and I joined him. “Make ready to welcome the seed of rebirth.”
He jerked his hand out of mine and tossed back his glass of mead.
“Is that all?” he asked me.
“I—” I was almost too stunned to speak. “I guess so.”
“Then I’ll bid you good night.”
