Chapter 15
With Halverton and the visitors gone, Aoife’s lungs expanded for the first time all morning.
She needed space.
She needed silence.
She needed to think.
With no thought for where she was going, simply away from the house, away from him, Aoife started walking. Her mind replayed the moment over and over again, the kiss, his hands on her back, his hair between her fingers. Her stomach churned, throat tightening. What had she done?
Why had she kissed him back? Why had she run her fingers through his hair? And why had it felt good to do so?
Playing his game was the only possible way she was going to be able to change him, and he could change; he was changing. Wasn’t he? She’d pleased him, and he’d sent food to the village.
Only now she had to go on pleasing him, and the thought of what that might mean made her nauseous.
She stopped, hand resting on a tree, and bent over, taking deep breaths to steady herself.
Was it too late to take it back? Probably. And even if she did, if she refused him, then this was all there was. And she wasn’t sure she could survive that.
It was only when she looked up that she saw she’d reached the hawthorn.
It was all their fault, the Shee. They were the reason she was trapped here. They, with all their power, refused to do anything to help the people who venerated them.
“Why are you allowing this?” the words came out as a strangled whisper. She trembled at the thought of challenging the Shee, but now that she had started, she found she could not stop.
Her voice rose, steadier now. “You play tricks on us for pulling up a pignut too roughly, curse anyone who cuts down your trees, but you say nothing while they burn villages? They mock you. They chop down your forests to build their houses. Why don’t you do something?”
The words broke from her in a shout. She snatched a loose stone from the ground and hurled it at the trunk. “What does it take to make you listen?”
Her legs gave out beneath her, and she sank to the ground, face hot, hands trembling.
She dug her fingers into the soil, desperate to hit or hurt something.
The grass was damp beneath her palms, the only sound her own breathing.
After a few minutes her heart rate slowed, the cool earth helping to ground her.
From behind her came a soft whimper, low and uncertain.
Aoife looked up.
The Athraith stood a few paces away, half-hidden by the shadows of the trees. Its eyes were black as pitch, watching her.
She drew a slow breath and lifted her hand. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “I won’t hurt you.”
The creature stepped closer, its hooves near-silent on the grass. When it reached her, it lowered its head and nuzzled her palm. Its breath was warm against her skin.
“Did the Shee send you?” she asked.
The Athraith tossed its head. She almost laughed. “No, then,” she said.
It folded its long legs and settled down on the ground beside her. She hesitated, remembering the story Cormac had told, of how they carried people off. Slowly, she sat down too.
“I can’t go with you to the Otherworld,” she murmured.
The Athraith made a snort that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Aoife smiled, resting her hand on the Athraith’s warm muzzle, her breath steadying as its soft exhale washed over her fingers.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
The creature blinked at her, unbothered.
She huffed. “No, I suppose I’m the one who shouldn’t be here.”
The Athraith shifted its weight, folding itself more comfortably beside her. Its coat shimmered in the dappled light, darker than night. Aoife reached out and let her fingers drift along its neck. Its hair was softer than she expected, and warm like a living hearthstone.
“What would Halverton say if I told him about you?” she murmured. “That I’ve gone mad.”
The Athraith flicked an ear.
“He wouldn’t believe you’re real,” Aoife went on. “Not even if you stepped on his foot. He’d call it superstition, or a trick of the light.” She swallowed. “He thinks we make you up.”
The Athraith lowered its head, nudging gently at her shoulder. Aoife leaned against it. She let out a slow breath.
“Why don’t you do anything?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Are they… are you… are you just watching?”
The Athraith gazed at her with those impossible eyes. No answer came.
Aoife let her head fall back. “Why don’t they see you? The Eldrossi. It’s like they walk around blind.”
A soft whicker rumbled in the Athraith’s throat. Comforting or sad, she couldn’t tell.
She sighed, long and tired. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how to stop any of this.”
The Athraith said nothing. It simply nudged her again, a gentle push almost like an embrace.
Aoife closed her eyes.
They sat like that for a long time. She couldn’t help thinking about Cormac. What would he say if he could see her now?
Minutes passed, then hours. The day slid by.
She didn’t think about the visitors or the lessons or the cutlery or the perfect Eldrossi vowels.
She sat, leaning into the creature’s warm flank, letting the steady rhythm of its breathing anchor her.
The sun drifted across the sky; shadows changing shape around them. The Athraith stayed, patient as an old tree, and the world beyond the hawthorn slipped away entirely.
And for the first time in days, her heart eased a little.
A shiver ran through her. Aoife rubbed her arms for warmth; her skin was cold to the touch.
The sky had dipped into bruised grey, storm clouds building over the distant hills.
It was time to go. The Athraith rose first, shaking droplets of light from its mane, and slipped between the trees as silently as it had come.
Aoife stood, brushing the grass from her skirts, and walked toward the house.
She’d have to sneak up to her room and hide there until Clara could help her change.
There was no way Halverton could see her with mud under her nails and grass stains on her skirts.
A lady did not play in the dirt; of that she was sure.
She cut through the ornamental gardens, passing between clipped hedges and stone urns. Halfway along the path, she froze.
Voices. Low and tense, beyond the hedge.
“…didn’t sign up to shove starving widows around,” one man muttered. His voice was young, cracking slightly with anger he was trying to swallow.
A second hissed back, older and sharper. “Keep your voice down. Lord Halverton doesn’t tolerate dissent. And the Commander’s worse. He’ll skin you alive if he hears you talking like that.”
A third exhaled, weary. “Aye, well… it needs saying. This isn’t soldiering. This is—”
Footsteps. A rustle. Then three soldiers rounded the corner and stopped dead when they saw her.
Aoife lifted her chin. “I don’t bear tales,” she said quickly. Hoping it would be enough to reassure them.
Silence fell heavy.
The youngest soldier, whose nose looked like it had been broken several times over, looked away first. His rifle strap slid down his shoulder, and he jerked it back up. His uncertainty was written in every line of him.
The tallest stepped forward. Broad-shouldered, hair tied with a strip of leather. Aoife recognised him, the soldier who had stepped between Cormac and the butt of a rifle. His eyes softened in faint recognition.
“Forgive us, miss. We were…” he trailed off.
“Enjoying the gardens?”
He smiled. “Yes, miss.”
“You’re from Inis Morra, aren’t you?” she said.
The three men looked at one another, unsure whether to answer.
None of them had succeeded in masking their accents. Maybe they simply hadn’t had as good a teacher as Mrs Harrow.
“I can hear it,” she said, making sure her own Morran accent was clear. “Where are you from?”
The tall soldier weighed his answer a moment before answering. “Balnador.”
“I’ve an aunt next door in Liscarra.”
A smile cracked his face. “My grandmother’s from Liscarra,” he said, a hint of pride slipping through.
Aoife’s smile warmed. “We used to visit in the summers. Do you know the ash tree at the crossroads? The one with the hollow in the trunk?”
The soldier laughed. “Know it? I fell out of it when I was eight. Broke my wrist clean through.”
Aoife huffed a breath. “I fell out of that tree as a child too.” In truth, she’d been only a few feet from the ground, and her older brother had pushed her for climbing too slowly. Her heart clenched at the memory of him, but it was a pain she’d long since grown accustomed to.
The soldier with the wonky nose snorted behind him, and the older soldier gave him a warning look, but he kept going, his voice softening with memory.
“What about the river?” he asked. “The one that runs behind the old mill. Do you know it? We used to fish for eels there. My da says the Shee hide under the reeds.”
Aoife nodded, her throat tightening. “My brother swore he saw lights over the water once. Said it meant the year would be lucky.”
A beat.
“It wasn’t.”
The soldiers went quiet.
“Aye. Seems the luck’s run thin for all of us.”
The older soldier jabbed him in the ribs.
Aoife looked between them, unwilling to let the fragile thread of connection break.
They were like her, far from home, trying not to be swallowed by an empire that hated everything they came from.
“In Liscarra,” she said, “people look after one another. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s dangerous.” She knew better than to name anything directly and could only hope they understood. She held out her hand. “I’m Aoife.”
The tall soldier hesitated only a second. “Lugh,” he said at last.
But before he could take her hand, the older soldier caught his arm.
He was lean-faced and wary, a man who had survived too much to trust easily. He shook his head once at Lugh, eyes fixed on Aoife, judging everything about her.
“Kian,” Lugh complained.
“You don’t know her,” Kian muttered. “Could be a trap.”
“She’s not trapping anyone,” Lugh said, irritation flaring. “She’s—”
“She’s one of us,” the third man said simply.
The one with the wonky nose stepped forward and took Aoife’s offered hand without hesitation. He was stockier than Lugh; his grip was warm and steady.