After a long while, Ira took the bowl and spoon away. Washing them, he nodded toward the corner of the room. “You can take the bed.”
“What?”
“The bed,” Ira repeated. “You can have it. I’ll be fine in my armchair.”
Arthur dragged a hand over his face. “Oh. Yes. Thank you. I suppose there’s no point leaving until morning.”
A long silence as Ira dried the dishes.
Then he said, “You’re not leaving.”
“Well,” Arthur said, taken aback, “no—not now, of course, but—”
“Not ever.”
Arthur had misheard. He thought Ira had said “not ever,” as if he expected Arthur to remain in this wintry vale for the rest of his life.
Before he could ask Ira to repeat himself, however, Ira said, “This is your home now.”
Arthur twisted around. Ira’s shoulders hunched, but when he turned from the counter his expression was firm. A pit gnawed at Arthur’s stomach.
“No, but—but—” He floundered, his mouth dry. “Lottie—the children—for heaven’s sake, Mrs. Livingston, she’s counting on me to go to Port Lorne and—”
Ira gave a sardonic smile. “How do you propose leaving with the bridge out?”
Arthur’s heart sank. He’d forgotten the bridge. “Surely there’s another way?”
“There isn’t,” Ira said bluntly, “and if there were, the forest would kill you before you made it halfway home.”
“But—you could take me. If you showed me the way—”
“I don’t leave the vale.”
“You showed Dad the way out.”
Ira’s jaw tightened. “That was long ago.”
Arthur tried to rein in his panic. “Please. Please, I— Surely it wouldn’t take long, I only traveled a couple of days to get this far. If you could just—”
Eyes smoldering, Ira lunged across the tiny space and grabbed Arthur’s collar.
“I don’t leave the vale,” he growled.
His fingers clenched at Arthur’s throat. Arthur swallowed with difficulty. His eyes stung.
Ira released him, backed away. He closed his eyes and let out a breath, dropping into his chair. Calyx climbed up behind him.
Arthur pressed into his own chair, his heart rabbiting. The pit gnawing at his stomach widened.
Ira’s voice was hoarser than ever. “I’m sorry.”
Arthur didn’t know whether he meant for the situation or for grabbing him like that. After a moment, Ira jerked his head back toward the corner.
“Take the bed. You’ll be more comfortable.”
Mechanically, Arthur drifted toward the bed. Freya followed, winding about his legs. He lifted her onto the bed after him. Outside, branches clattered in the breeze, but the windows didn’t rattle. He missed the rattling of his window in the attic. The windows in the kitchen.
He peeled off his socks. Across the room, in the dim red light of the stove, Ira seemed an ancient, immovable figure, splayed in his chair, gazing silently into the coals with greenerydraped around his shoulders. A stoic god instead of the amiable fairy prince Arthur had always imagined. His antlers gleamed faintly gold, illuminating their curves and pointed tips.
