The ley line sinks back down. Once its power leaves me, everything else comes rushing back. Pain and exhaustion and hunger and thirst. I collapse at Roark’s side, even as I hear Mab calling, even as doors open and people yell and run. I collapse into the darkness and smile because under my hand, I feel his arm shift.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Phineas
When I wake and find myself lying on an unfamiliar cot in a darkened room with no illumination but the dying fire in the grate, my first instinct is to reach out the ley line to find Roark. The instant I feel his glamour against my magick, I relax. No matter what’s about to happen, he’s here. He’s alive.
It takes a few minutes to fully wake up. I’m wrapped in a series of blankets and furs I have to fight to escape. I’ve been stripped to my boxers, but that’s of little concern right now.
A few feet away, Roark lies sleeping on a massive bed. I steal to his side, my steps muffled against the thick rugs covering what must be a stone floor. Roark’s chest rises and falls evenly, the slow, gentle breathing of painless sleep. I brush hair off his forehead. His skin’s cooler now, even though the ley line’s energy still shimmers under his skin.
He’s safe. And I’ve earned his freedom.
There’s a soft knock at the door far to my right. It opens on well-oiled hinges and an older hob enters. When she sees me up, she smiles. “I had hoped you would be awake.”
“Hi,” I say, suddenly embarrassed at my lack of clothes. She doesn’t seem as concerned, fortunately. She’s too busy looking back and forth at the minuscule distance separating me and Roark.
“You’ve both been sleeping for quite some time,” she finally says. “Her Majesty has requested you t
o join her for dinner.”
A shudder racks me. Me, alone with Mab. “I couldn’t. I should stay with him.”
The hob tilts her head a little. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, sir.”
“Finny,” I correct. “I’m no royal.” I step away from the bed and hold out my hand.
She stares at it, then sighs and tucks her own delicate hand inside mine before giving a firm shake. “I’m Bridget. Prince Lyne has been my charge since his infancy and I’m quite fond of him and his happiness.”
With that unspoken warning thrown out with the subtly of dynamite, she moves past me and quickly rebuilds the fire. The increased light reveals us to be in one of a series of wide rooms. Bridget scurries about the space, lighting candles and fussing as she sets things back to rights. Clearly, these are Roark’s chambers.
Some of the walls feature ceiling-high bookcases stuffed to the gills with leather-bound tomes. Various art pieces hang about the rooms, including the picture of the farm I gave him, which hangs near his bed. I pretend my heart doesn’t seize at the sight. Tiny shelves scattered throughout the space sparkle with trinkets, as if the man and the bird he shares a form with have a similar affinity for pretty objects. But the most surprising sight is the mixture of sleek technological items alongside the ancient.
A slim laptop sits on the writing desk next to a stack of parchment, an inkwell, and quills. Wireless speakers nestle into alcoves beside a medicine chest filled with dusty, arcane bottles of herbs. A gaming console and television are surrounded by suits of armor on display. Only Roark could find a balance of convenience and tradition throughout his immortality.
“Let me draw you some bath water,” Bridget says as she slips behind a screen, leaving me to gape at my surroundings. “While you soak, I’ll find fresh clothes for you to wear to dinner.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say, but it’s a weak protest. Soaking in hot water sounds like a dream, especially since my entire body feels bruised from everything I’ve been through.
Bridget reappears from behind the screen. “Hurry,” she urges. “Her Majesty doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
A short time later, I’m clean and properly dressed in a suit that must have been magicked to fit so well. Bridget checks me one last time before turning me toward the mirror and nodding her approval.
“This will do,” she announces before shooing me toward the door of Roark’s chambers. Before I know it, another servant is leading me to dinner and I’m outside an ornate set of doors guarded by redcaps.
They push the doors open so I can slip inside and the exit closes behind me with a thud. These aren’t Mab’s personal chambers. This room is too large, too empty. The long dining table set in the center of the open space is laden with food, but my attention is completely focused on the queen standing patiently beside her seat.
“You’re awake,” she says. Tonight, her dress is a dark blue with complicated silver embroidery. Her crown is a faint rope of silvery spider’s web. I wonder if she’s trying to lull me into a false sense of ease with her informality.
She lifts her hand, giving a lazy signal that I should sit. I obey, but stay on the edge of my seat just in case. Of course, Mab notices this and gives me a dark smile. She settles herself at the opposite end of the table and unfolds her napkin with a flick of her wrist. The fabric snicks through the air and she settles it in her lap before reaching and serving herself some of the food.
“Please,” she says, “eat.”
“No, thank you.” One of the first things I learned from hanging out with the fae was how dangerous food could be. A single bite of the wrong thing might bind me to the sídhe for a hundred years, steal my memories, make me a slave. The possibilities are endless.
Her smile widens. “I have no intention of killing you,” she informs me. “We are here to discuss your payment for healing my son.”
“Then I’d prefer we get on with that so I can get back to him.”