Those thoughts mushed together, tangling endlessly into nothing and everything. The only clear thing he could decipher, repeating over and over again, was a number.
Twenty.
Cason had barely managed a few sentences throughout the day. Not even as they packed their bags and loaded the horses. Not even as they ate their midday meal on the castle walls overlooking the inlet.
Elias talked, more than he’d heard out of the man in the several days they’d spent in company. Brela talked too, her voice back to its normal, confident tone. She joked with the prince, gave terrible gardening advice as she tried to fill in the holes she’d left in the courtyard the previous day, and even asked about all of the prince’s siblings and whether he’d ever seen a kygras before.
Somehow, after leaving breakfast looking like a frozen ghost, Farrah spoke more as the day went on. She started with soft, quick questions when the silence stretched on too long, avoided going anywhere without Brela and Elias, but when Serill offered information about the moon temple, the shadows underneath Farrah’s eyes faded. By the time she’d pried every last detail from the prince, she could have drawn a map of the entire temple without ever having set foot inside. She even had a smile on her face, her eyes bright as if stars were shining deep in that cerulean blue, and the slight tremor in her hands and voice were gone.
It nearly fractured the rest of Cason’s broken heart.
After a heavy dinner—of which Cason ate barely a few bites of—and making sure the kitchen was still preparing their food for the trip, Brela excused herself to the library while Farrah and Elias returned to their room. Single room, he discovered, because apparently even in a castle with options, the three of them still wanted to stay in the same bed.
He knew where Brela would be sleeping tonight.
That morning, he’d wondered if she would find him again. He had almost believed it after their conversation in the courtyard and her desperate clutching at the knife in an attempt to control herself.
Gods, that knife.
Cason spent the next hour in idle chatter with Boelyn and Serill, thankful that neither of them mentioned his silence over the passing of wine between them. More thankful that Boelyn didn’t say anything about their trip except to watch his back, protect the prince, and that he would meet them in Averlyn once they sent word that they’d returned.
Serill pressed Boelyn for more information about his father’s correspondences with anyone from Rooke or Anfroy, but the king’s captain was just as clueless as they had been.
When it was finally a reasonable time to excuse himself without making it obvious he was avoiding them, Cason pretended he still had things to pack, bowed to Serill, and bid his farewell to Boelyn before trudging out the door.
For just a breath, he stared down the hallway that would lead him to the library, studying the small alcoves he’d thrown Brela against in their mad rush to his room… whereshe’dthrown him as well. Then shoved those thoughts into the burning pit that had caved in his chest.
He could gather his mind tonight. Gods knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, but he could use that time. Come up with something to say to her tomorrow. It would never make anything right, would never fix the wrongs, but he could still say them. He could stillmeanthem, just as she had offered him the same honesty.
The smell of salmon wafted through the cool breeze coming through the windows and his stomach growled. Not eating more dinner had been a mistake, but he didn’t want to trudge back to the kitchens when the cooks were probably still in a frenzy making food for their trip to Valisea.
Later. He’d kill some time, draw a bath, and then head down for something once the castle was asleep.
But that smell only teased him more the closer he got to his rooms, almost as if it was begging him to change his mind.
Cason reached his room at the same time that lingering fish smell distorted, jarring him out of his mouthwatering thoughts. His magic pricked along his spine.
The fire in his room was crackling, louder than it should be when he wasn’t inside. And the smell…
He pushed open the doors to find the fireplace roaring, a stark contrast to the cooler sea breeze that had drifted through the hallways. Sure enough, sitting on the end table by the couch and fire was a plate piled with salmon, asparagus and potatoes. Behind it was another plate of pastries, stacked almost higher than the overflowing dinner plate.
More surprising was finding Brela seated on the rug with her back to the fire, legs sprawled in a wide vee, with papers stacked in four piles around her. The long, white-blonde strands that had been braided most of the day were now down in loose waves, tucked behind her ears and draped over each shoulder.
Still hunched over, writing whatever she was copying from a book onto the paper in front of her, she waved her left hand in greeting. “Took you long enough. I brought you food since you barely touched dinner.”
Cason very slowly shut the door behind him, careful not to take his eyes off the assassin. He didn’t see any blades, but he knew better than to assume she didn’t have any on her. Carefully, he approached the couch.
“Elias, Farrah, and I have a thing,” Brela said. She lifted the decanter of wine that had been hiding on her left side, the red liquid nearly drained halfway, and tipped it back. “You saw it that night when we stepped away from the camp.”
When the three took turns sharing,loudly, their anger with one another. And then Brela had started sobbing and nearly tackled them to the ground.
She continued. “It does us no good to let our thoughts fester, so we don’t allow them to sit for long. We take turns spewing every angry, evil, and stupid thought that went through our minds during… whatever dumb thing we were doing. There’s no defending, no interrupting, just listening, even if it’s not what you want to hear.” She took a deep swig again, not looking toward him. “Sometimes we forget that our actions hurt one another, even if that wasn’t our intention. But when we say it out loud, we don’t give those thoughts power to grow. To get worse and poison our feelings toward one another for no reason.”
She stuck the decanter in his direction. “We tackle those thoughts together instead of letting them eat us alive. And then we try to be better for each other.” Brela flashed him a knowing glance as he took the wine from her hand. “I had to get them fumbling-drunk the first time so they’d have the guts to say one bad thing about me.”
Cason lifted the wine to his lips and paused. “What did they say about… us?”
A half grin, enough to flash teeth. “Farrah told me I was immature and foolish and that I deserved to get caught for being reckless with you.” To avoid gaping at how casually Brela admitted that, Cason took a swig. “Elias said I’m flying too close to the sun and that you’re likely to burn me. He said I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
