Inside the tiered grotto surrounding the greenhouse, the world had cracked open, letting light inside. Winter branches were furred with new leaves. Crocuses in red and purple lolled their heads. The air smelled of moss and fresh beginnings.
The earth was still too cold to transplant most of my seedlings from the greenhouse, so I busied myself with clearing years’ worth of old leaves and stubborn weeds from the beds. And when the icy rains chased me inside, I cleaned—sweeping cobwebs from the rafters and dust from the corners and ash from the chimney. I found more of the lustrous black feathers. Careful with my fingertips, I tossed them out the window or burned them in the grate.
And when that was done, I ensconced myself in the secret alcove I’d discovered, painstakingly decoding the ancient journals. Time and linguistic shifts had rendered the looping, ornate script nearly unintelligible. But I forged ahead, laboring over incoherent translations by torchlight until my head hammered.
More than once, I almost caved and wrote to Cathair for help.Another letter had come via starling—it would have been so easy to ask. But now I’d set my mind to the task, I belligerently refused to fail. The druid had taught me the ancient tongue for a reason—proof I was more than a blunt object designed only to hurt.
Slowly, a narrative began to take tenuous shape. There had been a man, the ancient warrior who’d written the journals and built this fort. There had also been a Gentry maiden, although it was unclear whether they’d known each other well before being separated across realms. He referred to her only asmo chroí—my heart.
But mostly, he was obsessed with Folk bindings.Geasa droma draíochta, he called them—inviolable magical imperatives. Plenty of human tales spoke of geasa, but these curses he referenced seemed infinitely more powerful. Some of these bindings survived death itself, forcing dead spirits to linger in life. Some followed their subjects into Donn’s dark realms. And that made me think—inevitably—of Irian and Eala.
I leaned back in my chair, massaging a cramp from my hand and staring at nothing.
My death will not set you free, Irian had said.If I die, you die. All of you.
I still didn’t know whether I’d made the right decision in giving the Sky-Sword to the shadow heir. But I had to believe it was a good thing I hadn’t let the Gentry tánaiste bleed out on that beach. I understood why Eala was so keen to break her geas. But if Irian had truly bound her and the other swan maidens with one of these inviolable geasa… then their lives might all be twined so tightly, not even death could separate them.
Rogan and I were going to have to start thinking more creatively.
“Fia, I swear on Amergin’s soft, sweet lily-white knees!” This inventive round of cursing startled me as Rogan burst into thegreenhouse. “How do other men stand it?”
I set down a tray of seedlings, careful not to crush their delicate stems. “Standwhat?”
“The beard!” He practically clawed at his face, which was covered in a scraggly mess of uneven blond and brown hairs. I supposed it could be referred to as a beard—if I was feeling extremely generous. “It itches. I can’t stand it.”
I didn’t know why he was growing the damned thing out in the first place. It looked worse than his uncombed hair. Irritatingly, he was still the most handsome man I’d ever met.
Well. The most handsomehumanman.
“Shave it off, then.”
He fidgeted. With a rush of amusement, I realized—he was embarrassed about something. Borderlinebashful.
Rogan Mòr didn’t get embarrassed.
“Brighid’s forge, Rogan.” I brushed earth from my palms. “Do you not know how to shave your own face?”
“I always had—” He twitched with discomfort. “I’ve always had attendants to do it.”
“You’re twenty-two years old, Rogan.”
He looked at me, then away, squinting at the sun peering out from behind a bank of downy cloud. “Twenty-three, actually.”
“Rogan.” I stood straighter. “I forgot your birthday, didn’t I?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He shrugged, but the gesture had a plaintive quality to it.
It did matter. When we were children, we’d promised never to forget each other’s birthdays. Rogan’s father had never celebrated his first son, as the wintry day of Rogan’s birth had also been the day his first wife had died. He’d never forgiven Rogan for the death of his greatest love. And I—I’d never known when my birthday was, or if I even had one. Cathair liked to say things like me weren’t born—just made. And Mother cared little for frivolities like birthday parties. So Rogan and I had picked a day in early summer, when the lilacs were blooming, and celebrated it privately.
Princeling and changeling. Before everything had gotten so complicated.
“I’m sorry.” The soft promise of springtime made me pliant. I crossed to him and wrapped my arms around his broad chest. He stiffened in surprise before returning the gesture, looping his muscular arms around me. His scent—like sun-warmed metal and spiced wine—made me think, suddenly, of home. When I looked up at him, his eyes were the bright blue-green of the ocean below Rath na Mara. “I’ll make it up to you. Shave your beard. Trim your hair.”
“Do you know how?”
“Do you care?”
“Not really.” His low laugh stirred something warm in my belly. “If you mess it up, you’re the only one who has to look at me.”
