Chapter 25
When we return to the hideout, Desmond looks up from his book. He shuts it and regards the three of us with frigid anger that unnerves me. He meets Brandur, Finnian, and Maeve’s gaze first. They each lower their heads in deference. Then it’s my turn for his wrath.
“Do I have to say it?” Desmond demands, holding my gaze. He gestures at the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around Finnian’s swollen calf. His voice jolts pain through my skull, and the glow of the lanterns only makes it worse.
Finnian swallows. “I take full responsibility,” he says, but Desmond doesn’t look at him.
He remains silent, watching me expectantly. I uneasily shift, but I keep my back to the wall so no one notices I’m injured. The new moon’s darkness hid the blood when we were outside. But now, one wrong turn, and everyone will see.
“Dez—” Finnian starts, his voice cracking.
This isn’t right. I can’t let Finnian take the fall for this. “I pushed him into bringing me along and disobeyed their orders,” I admit.
“I know,” Desmond snaps.
Everyone flinches.
Desmond’s jaw ticks. He’s still watching me.
“We don’t have time to argue whose fault it is!” Maeve interrupts. Her face is flushed with agitation. “Brandur, go tend the horses! Desmond, get Finnian to my alchemy room.”
Brandur’s lip curls, though he heads outside without complaint.
Desmond loops his arm underneath Finnian’s shoulders. He levels his glare at me. “I’ll deal with you later.”
A chill shudders through me. I swallow the lump in my throat caused by the punitive thrum in the bond between us. The coldness is as sharp as a slap after his rejection last night.
We hurry to the alchemy room. Since I’m at the rear, no one notices me grimacing as my back throbs. I should be lying down, not walking. Yet now isn’t the time to mention it. Finnian’s leg needs to be cleaned before it becomes purulent.
Maeve’s alchemy room is bathed in an ominous blue glow from the mage lights hovering overhead.
Shelves of bottles and beakers cover the stone walls, and pots of fungi make maze-like corridors along the room’s edges.
Instead of a hearth and cauldron, the brewing apparatus is a hip-height stone table with a wide basin and a small brazier underneath it.
Maeve lights it, then gathers an armful of bottles.
Finnian sits on the low bed against the wall. He hisses as Desmond unwraps the bandages, careful not to brush the wound.
Maeve sucks in a breath. Finnian’s calf is a swollen mass of black, purple, and yellow. The semicircle of teethmarks is stained by clotting blood. I clench my jaw to keep from wincing.
“It. . . could be worse,” Maeve says.
“Can I help?” Desmond asks, the concern in his tone surprising me.
“Wash the wound,” Maeve replies as she dumps powders and fluids into the basin, forming a thick lilac mixture. Then she stirs. Runic engravings in the stone glow with a strange orange light, reflecting a dancing aurora of gold on the ceiling.
“What is that?” I ask, hoping the distraction will help me withstand the pain.
Maeve fills a beaker and feeds its straw-thin pipe into the basin. “An ancient alchemy table,” she replies without looking up. “Rune stole it from the College of the Arcane.”
“Which only happens to be the most exclusive college on the continent,” Desmond dryly says as he washes Finnian’s leg with disinfectant. “Less than a hundred people are allowed inside, and I guarantee Rune isn’t on that list.”
“Nothing’s a struggle for Rune,” Maeve says, then sniffs the mixture. “We’re getting there!”
“The college isn’t just a rumor?” I stroke the rim of the table, too fascinated to give Desmond the same cold shoulder he’s shown me. The elders in Nettlerock were adamant that it wasn’t real. Then again, they also said the first fae I met would glamour me into blind adoration and steal me away.
“It’s no more a rumor than King Olin’s tomb,” Desmond answers.
“Shh,” Maeve scolds. “You’ll scare my cordyceps.” She points at a pot of tiny fungi growing out of. . . dead ants?
I sit beside the pot, but grunt at my wound’s agonizing stretch. I can’t help but look at Desmond again, and my pulse skips. He’s watching me with a stern, almost devoted focus. Worry pinches his brows. I keep my expression neutral, trying desperately to hide my pain.
Desmond looks away and rests his hand on Finnian’s shoulder. They trade grimaces until Finnian sighs. “I’ll be fine,” he assures Desmond. “Maeve may be a better alchemist than a healer, but she’ll have me fixed up in no time. I trust her with my life. You can too.”
The mage light illuminates Maeve’s freckles and her shy, unsteady smile. Desmond glances at her with a hard set of his jaw as if burdened by Finnian’s words.
Brandur enters, his gruff frown faltering when he eyes Finnian. “How’s it coming along?” he asks Maeve.
“It’ll be done when it’s done,” she teases him, though her voice cracks. “Soon. Just a little longer.”
Then Rune strolls in, his smile bright. It doesn’t falter even as he takes in our sombreness. “Did you get it?” he asks.
Brandur slips the map out of his boot and hands it to Rune, who tuts as he unrolls it.
“Your cavalier method of concealment has wrinkled it. I was hoping to hang it in my office after Desmond has his fun with it, but. . .” He sighs. “Well, it’s hardly worth a hundred thousand marks now. Perhaps be a bit more careful next time.”
Brandur mutters something about needing to vent his frustrations and walks across the hall into the sparring room, slamming the door so hard it shakes.
“Well, someone’s had a rough night,” Rune says, not looking up from the map. “I suppose I could find an archivist with some sort of mending Gift.” Then he looks at me. “Cyn, what are you doing up at this hour?”
“I went with them.” I hope it doesn’t piss him off as much as it did Desmond.
Rune looks intrigued, even more so when Finnian adds, “We wouldn’t have accessed the vault without her Gift. Our heist was a success because of her.”
I’m shocked that Finnian is vouching for me, especially since the map wasn’t in the vault.
“How auspicious after all!” Rune grins. “I knew you’d be cut out for this. Will you join me in my office for a brief celebration, Cyn?”
Desmond is silent, but the thrum of his emotions darkens like the hazy sky before a violent, unpredictable storm. Why? Does he distrust Rune that much, or is it something more? Jealousy? That doesn’t seem like him.
My back sears as I try to stand. The movement splits the clotting slash, and I groan and sink back down. “It’s been a long night. Tomorrow?”
Rune winks. “It’s a date, dear Cyn.” He approaches me, gently tilts my head to the side with the tips of his fingers, and tsks. “And Maeve, please have a look at her when you’re done.”
“No, I’m—” I start, but he’s already striding out.
Desmond stands. “You don’t feel fine.” His jaw ticks, and he runs his hand through his curls, but his gaze doesn’t leave mine.
Feel? I glare at him, because I’d rather not have the entire guild know about the weird emotional link between us. Nor do I want him to know that the way he’s looking at me makes me dare to believe he cares.
“I’m going to bed.” Slowly, I stand. I face Finnian and swallow the heavy lump in my throat. “I’m. . .”
I’m sorry.
He straightens, watching me with those deep brown eyes that are somehow still alight with a smile.
“I shouldn’t have insisted on coming with you.
” My mouth is so dry that it stings, like I stuffed it full of cotton.
An apology is not something I give often, and usually only to Evie.
But this roundabout repentance hardly feels genuine no matter how much I mean it.
I suppose I just prefer the human way of apologizing, the ability to say it outright.
If Finnian were human, he would deserve that much.
His smile broadens, although it doesn’t make me feel better. “No serious harm done, Cyn. We got the map, and I got a topaz out of it.” He has the blitheness to wink at me. “You did promise I could have your gem if you caused trouble.”
Maeve lets out an exasperated sigh. “The cordyceps! They’re already withering. Can’t you all talk after I treat him?” She smooths her tawny hair behind her ears and hovers her hand over the basin, checking its heat.
I leave the alchemy room with strides that feel a bit unsteady. Desmond follows me, a shadow hovering behind me.
“If you want to lecture me, let’s just get it over with,” I snap as soon as we’re far enough down the hall that the others won’t hear.
“Let’s,” he agrees, and beckons me to follow him.