He choked out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, lifting his head to look at me.
“It is,” he said, a ghost of a grin touching his mouth. “It’s exceedingly pleased. But not half as pleased as I am.”
I tugged my hand back, intending to brush the hair from his eyes, but the movement felt padded. I looked down. Thick strips of linen swaddled my hands from fingertips to wrists, immobile and heavy against the coverlet. Panic flared, a cold spark in my chest where the warmth had been. I tried to curl my fingers into a fist to test the joints, to ensure I hadn’t traded my gift for my mobility.
Fenrik’s hand shot out, catching my wrist with a gentleness that belied his speed.
“Don’t.” His voice was rough, scraping over the newfound silence of the room. “You nearly burned yourself out, Lysa. The Dragonheart extract... the cost was severe. Your father warned us it would be.”
He settled on the edge of the mattress, his hip pressing against my thigh. With the precision of a surgeon, he began to peel back the layers of linen on my right hand, and then the left. The cloth fell away, loop by loop, revealing skin I barely recognised.
I held my breath, bracing for blackened ruin, the kind of necrosis that took fingers when frostbite went deep. But as the final strip dropped to the quilt, I stared. The old ink stains and potion smudges were gone, burned away by the intensityof the power I’d channeled. In their place, stark white lines traced up from my fingertips, branching across my knuckles and dissipating at my wrist. They looked like frost crystallising on a windowpane, or lightning frozen in the instant of the strike.
“Can I...” The question died in my throat. I commanded my index finger to lift. It obeyed. A little stiff, perhaps, but the connection remained true. I flexed the others, watching the white spiderwebbing shift with the movement of my tendons. Relief crashed into me, so strong it made my head spin. I wasn’t broken.
Fenrik traced the line of the scar on my thumb, his touch reverent. “I thought I’d lost you to the ley-line,” he said. “I thought the magic had taken you apart.”
Fenrik’s thumb was still tracing the erratic white lightning patterns on my skin when a politetap-tap-tapsounded on the heavy oak door.
He stiffened, probably the reflex of a man used to defending his territory kicking in, but before he could even open his mouth to growl a command for privacy, the latch clicked and the door swung wide, banging against the stone stopper.
“I told the damn house to wait,” a familiar voice grumbled, “but the architecture has no patience for etiquette today.”
Maren Brightwillow stood on the threshold, a silver tray rattling in her hands. The scent of chamomile, honey, and the yeasty warmth of fresh scones rolled into the room. She took one look at me sitting up against the pillows and abandoned all pretense of composure.
The tray landed on the nearest side table with a clatter that made the teacups jump. Then she was on me.
“You foolish, brilliant girl,” Maren sobbed into my shoulder, rocking me slightly. “Scaring us half to death. If you ever drink an entire vial of Dragonheart extract again, I will personally curse you.”
“Nice to see you too, Maren,” I said, patting her back with my stiff, lightning-struck hand.
“I—er—“ Fenrik made a vague noise from the edge of the bed, looking like a man who had successfully fought a magical shadow-dragon but had no idea how to combat a weeping tea-shop owner. He wisely shifted back to give her space, though his gaze never left my face.
Maren pulled back, wiping her eyes with her apron, her face blotchy and beautiful. “Don’t you ‘nice to see me.’ The whole town felt the snap when the ley-line healed. My oven pilot lights flared green.”
Behind her, two more figures shuffled into the room, their steps hesitant on the plush carpet. Father looked older than I remembered, his shoulders stooped in his coat, but the perpetual shadow of exhaustion that grayed his skin was gone. He stared at me, specifically at my hands resting on the quilt, with an expression of profound awe.
“Lysa,” he said. He didn’t rush forward like Maren. He stayed near the door, his hat clutched in both hands. “The extract... I feared it would burn you hollow. Your mother... she only ever theorized it could hold a charge like that.”
“It held,” I said. “I held.”
“You are your mother’s legacy,” he said, his voice cracking. “And so much more.”
Before the weight of that could crush me, Briony pushed past him. She didn’t look awe-struck; she looked vindicated. Her auburn braids were fraying, her eyes red-rimmed but bright as emeralds. She skipped to the foot of the bed, gripping the carved wood. She beamed at me, then shifted her gaze to Fenrik, who was sitting casually on the mattress in his shirtsleeves, looking remarkably human despite the lingering danger in his stillness.
“You did it,” Briony said loudly, a grin splitting her face. “You actually saved the beast.”
Fenrik arched a single, dark eyebrow. “I am in the room, Briony.”
“And looking much better for it, milord,” she shot back. She looked between the two of us, me in bed, him guarding my side, the obvious lack of propriety in how close we were sitting. “I assume the library is unlocked now? Because if this is the ‘Happily Ever After’ part, I have several reference books on wedding planning that I’ve been saving since I was twelve.”
“Briony,” I said, though I felt heat rising in my cheeks.
“What?” She shrugged, releasing the footboard to bounce on the balls of her feet. “The curse is broken. The castle is magical again. I saw a gargoyle wink at me in the hallway. I’m just saying, logically, an actual wedding comes next, with a dress, music and food.”
“The House is sentient,” Fenrik said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “And the gargoyle was likely checking for structural damage, not flirting.”
“I don’t know,” Maren sniffed, pouring a cup of tea with shaking hands.
