She’d expected to have to coax her friend, but once Gwyn overcame her initial trepidation, she was a willing participant, and a merry companion. The priestess laughed at her own mistakes, and did not bristle at corrections from Cassian.
By the end of the lesson, though, Gwyn’s robe was damp with sweat, tendrils of hair curling around her flushed face. Cassian ordered them to drink some water before their cooldown.
As Gwyn poured herself a glass, she said, “At the temple in Sangravah, we had a set of ancient movements that we would go through every sunrise. Not for battle training, but for calming the mind. We did cooldowns after those, too, though we called them groundings. The movements took us out of our bodies, in a way. Let us commune with the Mother. The groundings settled us back into the present world.”
“Why did you sign up for this, then?” Nesta drank the glass Gwyn extended. “If you already have mind-calming exercises you’re accustomed to?”
“Because I don’t ever want to feel powerless again,” Gwyn said softly, and all those easy smiles and bright laughs were gone. Only stark, pained honesty shone in her remarkable eyes.
Nesta swallowed, and though instinct told her to pull away, she said quietly, “Me too.”
The bell above the shop door jangled as Nesta entered, brushing off the snowflakes that had stuck to the shoulders of her cloak. Cassian had needed to go up to the Illyrian Mountains after their second lesson with Gwyn, and to her surprise, he had asked Nesta to join him. He’d already cleared it with Clotho that she’d be a few hours late for her work at the library. He hadn’t explained why beyond a casual comment about getting her out of the House and into the fresh air.
But she’d accepted, and hadn’t told him why, either. Cassian hadn’t even seemed curious when she requested he leave her at Windhaven so she could go shopping. Perhaps a spark had gleamed in his eye, as if he’d guessed, but he’d been distant, quiet.
Given that Cassian was up here to meet with Eris, she didn’t blame him. He’d left Nesta by the fountain in the center of the freezing village, making sure she knew that if she needed to warm up, Rhys’s mother’s house was unlocked.
Velaris was still gripped in summer’s hand, autumn just barely tugging it away, but Windhaven had already yielded completely to winter’s embrace. Nesta wasted little time in entering the shop.
“Nesta,” Emerie said by way of greeting, peering over a young-looking male’s broad shoulder and wings from where she stood helping him at the counter. “It’s good to see you.”
Was that relief in her voice? Nesta made sure the door behind her was firmly latched before striding in, the snow on her boots leaving muddy tracks alongside those left by Emerie’s customer.
The male half-turned toward Nesta, revealing a blandly handsome face, dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck, and glassy brown eyes. The asshole was drunk. Asshole seemed to be the correct term, since Emerie’s rigid posture revealed distaste and wariness.
Nesta sauntered up to the counter, giving the male a once-over that she knew usually made people want to throttle her. From the way he stiffened, swaying slightly on his booted feet, she knew it’d worked. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully to Emerie. Another thing males seemed to detest: being ignored by a female.
“Wait your turn, witch,” the male grumbled, turning back to the counter and Emerie.
Emerie crossed her arms. “I think we’re done here, Bellius.”
“We’re done when I say we’re done.” The words were half-slurred.
“I have an appointment,” Nesta said, leveling a cool glance at him. She sniffed at the male. Her nose crinkled. “And you seem to need an appointment with a bath.”
He turned fully to her, muscled shoulders pushing back. Even with the glazed expression, ire boiled in his stare. “Do you know who I am?”
“A drunk fool wasting my time,” Nesta said. Two Siphons—a blue darker than Azriel’s—sat atop the backs of his large hands. “Get out.”
Emerie stilled, as if bracing herself for the retaliation. But she said before the male could reply, “We’ll discuss this later, Bellius.”
“My father sent me to convey a message.”
“Message received,” Emerie said, chin lifting. “And my answer is the same: this store is mine. If he wants one so badly, he can open his own.”
“Hateful bitch,” Bellius bit out, swaying back a step.
Nesta laughed, cold and hollow. Fae and humans had more in common than she’d realized. How many times had she witnessed her father’s debtors darkening their doorstep to shake him down for money he didn’t have? And then there had been the time when they had gone beyond threats. When they’d left her father’s leg shattered. Any sense of safety shattered with it.
“Get out,” Nesta said again, pointing to the door as Bellius bristled at her fading laughter. “Do yourself a favor and get out.”
Bellius rose to his full height, wings flaring. “Or what?”
Nesta picked at her nails. “I don’t think you want to find out the or what part.”
Bellius opened his mouth, but Emerie said, “Your father now has my answer, Bellius. I suggest you get some water from the fountain before you fly home.”
Bellius only spat onto the floorboards and stalked for the exit, throwing Nesta a hazy glare as he slammed the door behind himself.
In silence, Nesta and Emerie watched him stagger into the snow-swept street and spread his wings. Nesta frowned as he shot into the sky.
“Friend of yours?” Nesta asked, facing Emerie at the counter again.
“My cousin.” Emerie cringed. “His father is my uncle. On my father’s side.” She added before Nesta could ask, “Bellius is a young, arrogant idiot. He’s due to participate in the Blood Rite this spring, and his arrogance has only grown these past months as he anticipates becoming a true warrior. He’s skilled enough that he got placed on a scouting unit to the continent—and just returned to celebrate his accomplishment, apparently.” Emerie wiped at an invisible speck of dirt on the counter. “I didn’t expect him to be drunk midday, though. That’s a new low for him.” Color stained her cheeks. “I’m sorry you had to witness it.”
Nesta shrugged. “Dealing with drunk fools is my specialty.”
Emerie kept fiddling with the imaginary spot on the counter. “Our fathers were two of a kind. They believed children should be harshly disciplined for any infraction. There was little room for mercy or understanding.”
Nesta pursed her lips. “I know the type.” Her mother’s mother had been the same way before she’d died of a deep-rooted cough that had turned into a deadly infection. Nesta had been seven when the stern-faced dame who had insisted on being called Grandmamma had beaten her palms raw with a ruler for missteps in her dancing lessons. Worthless, clumsy girl. You’re a waste of my time. Maybe this will help you remember to pay attention to my orders.
Nesta had only felt relief when the old beast had died. Elain, who’d been spared the cruelties of Grandmamma’s tutelage, had wept and dutifully laid flowers at her grave—one soon joined by their mother’s stone marker. Feyre had been too young to understand, but Nesta had never bothered to lay flowers for her grandmamma. Not when Nesta bore a scar near her left thumb from one of the woman’s nastier punishments. Nesta had only left flowers for her mother, whose grave she had visited more often than she cared to admit.