“I don’t like it,” Cassian growled.
“You don’t have to like it,” Feyre said, head lifting, full of that High Lady’s authority. “You just have to watch from the sidelines and not look like you want to rip his head off.”
Nesta cut in, “Tell Morrigan I’ll meet with her for dancing lessons whenever she’s available.”
Feyre and Cassian, still bristling at each other, silently turned toward her.
Nesta approached the desk, laying Ataraxia there. “Here,” she said to Rhys. “You can take it back.”
Rhys said nothing, but Feyre’s brows rose. “Why don’t you keep it?”
Cassian’s curious stare seared her like a brand, but Nesta only said, “I have no interest in more death.”
Nesta inhaled through her nose for a count of six, held her breath for a few seconds, then exhaled through her mouth for another six beats. In the quiet of her bedroom that night, settled in the chair, she focused on her breath, nothing more.
Any thoughts that came in, she acknowledged and let pass. Even if some kept returning.
She didn’t care where they hid the Harp. If they needed her blood to ward it as they had for the Mask, they’d let her know. But the thought of what came next—
Breathe. Count.
Nesta inhaled again, attention fixing on her expanding ribs, the feeling of the breath in her body. Even weeks into it, some days’ Mind-Stilling exercises were harder than others. But she kept at it, ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes at night.
Nesta exhaled, counting. Kept going.
That was all she supposed she could do: just keep going. One day, one breath at a time.
She let that thought go, too. Breathed and breathed, and then stopped the counting altogether. Let her mind wander.
But her mind did not shoot in every direction. It remained calm. Resting.
Content right where it was.
War had left the cottage untouched. But the harsh winters since Nesta had last seen it had not been so kind.
Azriel had winnowed her and Cassian here after training, but hadn’t lingered. Apparently, Gwyn wanted him to go over dagger handling, so he’d left them with a promise to return in an hour.
Nesta had no idea if an hour would be too much, or too little. Had no idea why she’d asked Cassian to come here with her, really. But she’d gotten it into her head that she needed to visit. To see this place.
The midday autumn sun made the disrepair all the more stark: the thatched roof that had molded or balded in spots, the overgrown weeds already turning brown before the winter, rising up to the small windows in the stone walls. Nesta’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to walk toward the entry.
Cassian remained silent behind her, footsteps so quiet he could have been the brisk wind through the too-tall grasses. His head and arm had been fully healed by this morning, two days after Nesta had agreed to bewitch Eris. Cassian had even exercised alongside her earlier, though at a slower pace than usual. Like he was indeed heeding Rhys and Madja’s warning to go easy. That he’d gone through the exercises without grimacing had caused some intrinsic part of her to sigh with relief—and dare ask him to join her today. She’d never have invited him along if he’d still been injured.
Not that there was much of an enemy here to pose a threat. No humans wandered the leaf-strewn road beyond the cottage; only a few birds chirped a halfhearted melody from the almost barren trees.
Muted, drab, and empty. That was how this land felt, even with autumn upon it. As if even the sun couldn’t be bothered to shine properly here.
Nesta’s heart thundered as she laid a hand against the cold wooden door. Claw marks still gouged it.
“Tamlin’s handiwork, I take it?” Cassian asked behind her.
Nesta shrugged, unable to find the words. She and Elain had rehung the door after Tamlin had broken it. Their father, his leg wrecked beyond repair and unable to bear weight, had watched them, offering unhelpful advice.
Her fingers curled into a fist and she shouldered the door open. Its rusted hinges objected, creaking, and a dusty, half-rotten scent swarmed her nose.
Her cheeks heated. For Cassian to be here, to see this—
“Just a brute, remember?” He stepped to her side. “I’ve lived in far worse. At least you had walls and a roof.”
Nesta hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear those words, and her shoulders loosened as she stepped into the cottage proper. In the chill dimness, broken only by rays of sunlight, she frowned at the ceiling. “This house used to have a roof.” The damage had let in all manner of creatures and weather—the former had made themselves comfortable, judging by the nests and various scattered droppings.
Nesta’s mouth turned dry. This horrible, awful, dark place.
She couldn’t stop her shaking.
Cassian laid a hand on her shoulder. “Walk me through it.”
She couldn’t. Couldn’t find the words.
He pointed to a long worktable. One leg had collapsed, and the whole thing lay at a slant. “You ate here?”
She nodded. They’d eaten here, some meals in silence, some with her and Elain trying to fill the quiet with their idle chatter, some with her and Feyre at each other’s throats. Like those last meals they’d had with her in this house.
Nesta’s stare drifted to the paint flaking off the walls. The intricate little designs. Cassian followed her stare. “Did Feyre paint that?”
Nesta swallowed, and managed to get out, “She painted every chance she got. Any extra coin she managed to save went toward paints.”
“Have you ever seen what she’s done to the cabin up in the mountains?”
“No.” She’d never been there.
“Feyre painted the whole thing. Just like this. She told me once that there’s a dresser here …”
Nesta aimed for the bedroom. “This one?” Cassian followed her, and gods, it was so cramped and dark and smelly. The bed was still covered with its stained linens. The three of them had slept here for years.
Cassian ran a hand over the painted dresser, marveling. “She really did paint stars for herself before she knew Rhys was her mate. Before she knew he existed.” His fingers traced the twining vines of flowers on the second drawer. “Elain’s drawer.” They drifted lower, curling over a lick of flame. “And yours.”
Nesta managed a grunt of confirmation, her chest tight to the point of pain. There in the corner sat a pair of worn, half-rotted shoes. Her shoes. One of them was bursting at the toe’s seam. She’d worn those shoes—in public. Could still remember mud and stones creeping in.
Her heart thundered, and she walked out of the room, back into the main space.
She didn’t mean to, but she looked toward the dark fireplace. Toward the mantel.
Her father’s wood figurines lay atop it, thickly coated with dust and cobwebs. Some had been knocked over, presumably by whatever creatures now lived here.
That familiar roaring filled her ears, and Nesta’s steps thudded too loudly on the dusty floorboards as she approached the fireplace.
A carving of a rearing bear—no bigger than her fist—sat in the center. Nesta’s fingers shook as she picked it up and blew off the dust.
“He had some skill,” Cassian said quietly.