“Yes, those—those awful eagles.”
The Lord of the Wood squinted into the twilit sky as if he might see them winging overhead. “Stormwings. They bring storms in from the sea every year. Earlier than they used to.”
“Is that why it’s winter here?”
“It’s always winter here.” The Lord of the Wood nodded toward the open door of the tree-house. “You’d better come inside. I’ll patch you up.”
He turned toward the door. Those wolf paws left massive clawed prints in the snow. Freya sniffed at them and growled.
Arthur hugged himself, shivering. “My lord—”
“Don’t call me that.”
Arthur faltered. “Then what do I call you?”
The Lord of the Wood’s shoulders hunched. For a long moment, Arthur thought he wouldn’t answer, and Arthur would have to resort to an awkwardum, excuse mewhenever he wanted to address the other man. Being. Beast. Whatever exactly he was, with his antlers and his paws and his human face with its angry eyes and beautiful hair.
At last the Lord of the Wood said, “Ira. My name is Ira.”
Arthur twisted his fingers together, wondering whether his father had known the name. Why his father had never mentioned the scar or knee brace—though many fishermen in Seacliff had something like them—or the antlers or paws. “Why are you letting me in?”
“Because you’re bleeding.”
“But...” Arthur took a step forward. A tendril shot up from the Lord of the Wood’s shoulders; he hastily stepped back. “A moment ago you were ready to throw me out. Now you want to take care of me. I don’t understand.”
Glancing back at him, the Lord of the Wood raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to stay here in the snow with your forehead bloody?”
“No.”
“Then come inside.”
Arthur tried, but the tangle of greenery slipped from the Lord of the Wood’s shoulders. It rose up right in his path, clicking faintly. Vine, leaf, branch, and flower grew until it loomed over him,creature-like. It swayed threateningly. Arthur swallowed.
The Lord of the Wood—Ira—turned. “Enough, Calyx.”
The plant creature reached for Arthur with a tendril.
“Calyx.”
Calyx shrank, until it was the size and roughly the shape of a small dog, and trotted past him into the house.
“What the hell is that?” Arthur croaked.
“My guardian,” Ira said in distaste. “It should leave you be now.”
Arthur wasn’t reassured by thatshould,but he traipsed into the tree-house with the cat mewling disapproval at his heels.
He stood in the doorway until Ira nodded him toward the unused armchair. Calyx sprawled beside the woodstove like a dog, though its shape had gone vague. Arthur gave it a wide berth.
His glasses fogged up; he wiped them on his shirt and put them back on. The cat leaped into his lap. His socks were squishy with melting snow, which made him wish he didn’t have feet, but he couldn’t bring himself to take them off.
Ira shed his furs and hung them on a row of pegs by the door. Without them, he was small and lean, wearing mended trousers and a linen shirt with toggles sewn on. He limped through the room for a rag and water, then sat in the other armchair to remove the knee brace from his twisted right leg.
Arthur tried and failed not to stare at his paws, reddened when Ira caught him.
Ira’s mouth pressed into a grim line, but he didn’t comment. “Let me see.”
Arthur scooted his chair closer. The cat growled as Ira touched him. Tendrils shot from Calyx’s strange, lumpy amalgam of plant anatomy, turning toward Freya. Arthur ran a hand through her long fur until she quieted. He was grateful to have his own self-appointed guardian, given the circumstances, but he wished she wouldn’t set the plant creature off.
