Maren let out a low, appreciative whistle, rocking back on her heels. She wiped her hands on a rag, her dark eyes sparkling with a mix of horror and amusement. “Well. That’s complicated.”
“It’s horrifying,” I snapped, checking Kirion’s pulse again.
“It is, but think about it, Lysa. You’re the medic here, magic follows the path of least resistance, right? Eros—desire—is the strongest conduit for raw magic. It’s why Brewworkers use dragonfire to heat the cauldrons.”
She gestured with a greasy finger. “Kelda is cold magic. Illusion and stasis. She’s trying to freeze him in a moment of compliance. That’s why it hurts him. It’s like trying to fuck an iceberg.”
I choked on a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Maren!”
“I’m serious! She’s a cold, lifeless bitch. But you?” Maren poked me in the chest. “You said your magic looked gold when it touched him. Gold is heat. Gold is alchemy. Transmutation.”She leaned in, her grin widening. “You told me you two almost tore the study apart during that storm.”
“He didn’t want to take advantage of me!” I defended, though the memory of his hard body pressed against mine made my core clench.
“Honey,” Maren drawled, “he’s literally screaming your name while balls-deep in the villain. His body knows the difference. Kelda is draining him dry with that frost-bitten cooch of hers, and you’re over here wringing your hands because you’re afraid you might actuallysavehim with a good toss.”
“It’s not just about sex,” I mumbled, though my skin felt too tight.
“It’s never just about sex with mages, Lysa. It’s about energy transfer. He needs fuel to burn out that shadow. You’re a walking furnace of golden, transmuting magic, and you left him starving.” Maren stood up, nudging Kirion’s sleeping form gently with her toe. “He’ll stay here. He’s safe with me. Pip can sneak him scraps of ham.”
I stood too, wiping the last of the salve from my fingers.
“You’re right,” I said, smoothing my apron. “He’s starving. And I’m done being afraid of the heat.”
Maren smirked, handing me my cloak. “Good. Go get your husband back. And this time, for the love of the gods, don’tleave him frustrated. So much depends on it.”
“Do you think their sex might have been an illusion, though? That’s what Fenrik said.”
Maren shrugged. “Does it make any difference?”
I didn’t stop running until the slate roof of the infirmary loomed out of the mist. My lungs burned, and the rain had soaked through my cloak, plastering my shirt to my skin, but the cold was nothing compared to the fire Kirion’s memory had ignited in my blood.
I burst through the back entrance, intending to grab my travel pack and leave before I could second-guess myself. “Briony, I need the heavy winter cloak and—“
The words died in my throat.
The prep room, a sanctuary of silence and drying herbs, sounded like a battlefield. Or a vigorous wrestling match involved in a landslide. Jars rattled on the shelves as a slapping sound echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by a moan that was definitelynotrelated to a magical injury.
I froze.
On the main worktable, right on top of a pile of drying sage bundles, was my sister. And buried between her spread thighs, gripping her hips like he was trying to steer a runaway carriage, was Lorin, the shy silversmiths’s son. He wasn’t shy now. He was working between my little sister’s legs with a devotion that bordered on religious, his trousers pooled around his ankles, revealing a truly pale, frantic backside that clenched tight with every enthusiastic bob of his head.
“Oh,yes—right there, don’t you dare stop or I’ll hex you!“ Briony cried out, her head thrown back, braids swinging wildly as her heels dug into the poor boy’s shoulders.
I stood there for three heartbeats, my brain refusing to process the scene. Then Lorin let out a muffled, triumphant sound against her, and Briony’s back arched off the table, sending a jar of pickled newt eyes crashing to the floor.
“Oh, sweet Gods,” I managed, squeezing my eyes shut. “Lorin, if you don’t come up for air, you’re going to suffocate.”
The scream that followed was harmonized perfectly. There was a frantic scramble of limbs, a thud as Lorin slipped on the sage and went crashing to the floorboards, and the sound of Briony frantically tugging her skirts down.
“Lysa!” Briony squeaked. She was flushed a brilliant scarlet, her chest heaving, her blouse unbuttoned almost to her navel. “We—I—he was helping me with... inventory.”
Lorin poked his head up from behind the table, face smeared with what I prayed was just... well, actually, I didn’t want to know. He looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. “Inventory,” he said.
“Inventory doesn’t usually involve oral fixation, Briony,” I said, rubbing my temples. The absurdity of it: me, the married woman, fleeing a nightmare of repression only to walk in on my baby sister getting partially devoured on the herb table, almost made me laugh hysterically.
“I’m going back,” I said, the humor vanishing as quickly as it came. “To the manor. Kelda... she’s doing something to him, something terrible.”
Briony blinked, the flush fading from her cheeks. She looked at Lorin, then back to me, and seemingly grew three inches taller. She hopped off the table, ignoring her dishevelled hair, and marched over to me.
