Chapter Eleven #2
Connor’s eyes were bright with fury. “There’s nothing there.” He saw Adrian’s hand clench.
Morrigan didn’t argue. He simply looked at Connor as if he was insisting he wasn’t bleeding whilst trying to stem a wound.
“Tell me about the hats,” Adrian stated.
Connor whipped his head around. “What?”
Adrian shrugged casually. “He’s a hatmaker. He mentioned hats. I’d like to know what the hats do.”
Connor stared at him as if Adrian had lost his mind.
Morrigan’s expression brightened, delighted by the pivot.
“Ah. Yes. Hats. Much safer topic than destiny.” He moved along the wall, his hands hovering near the displays without touching.
“Most people think hats are about hiding. They’re not.
Hats are about permission. They tell the world what you’re allowed to be. ”
He stopped at a soft, slate-grey cap with a silver seam. “This one is a Listener. Wear it and you can hear what people mean, not what they say.”
Connor snorted. “That can’t be true.”
Morrigan’s eyes flicked to him. “Such a disbeliever despite all you’ve seen and heard in these past few days.”
Adrian’s mouth twitched.
Morrigan hand hovered over on a narrow-brimmed hat with a ribbon the colour of dried blood. “This is a Redoubt. It makes you uninteresting. Not invisible, merely forgettable. People’s gazes slide away from you. Their minds don’t hold you.”
Connor’s gaze sharpened, unwilling interest creeping in. “That’s impossible.”
“Everything’s impossible,” Morrigan said, “until it isn’t.” He pointed to a wide-brimmed hat with a dark velvet band stitched with tiny gold runes. “That one is a Ward. It turns away minor malice. Curses, ill wishes, the kind of spite that sticks to you after you leave a room.”
Adrian rubbed his shoulder again, wincing. Connor wanted to pull his shirt aside, see what was happening, but he knew that would be a bridge too far and would lead somewhere he didn’t want to go.
Morrigan’s gaze softened. “And this…” He lifted a simple beanie, black wool, plain as anything, “is a Grounder. Wear it and your magic settles. No surges. No accidental flares. It’s for young ones, mostly. Or for men who don’t like what they are.”
Connor’s eyes flashed. “I don’t have magic.”
Morrigan didn’t contradict him and set the hat down with care.
Adrian swallowed. “Do you have one that breaks bindings?”
Morrigan’s smile vanished. The air in the shop cooled, the stove suddenly less convincing.
“No,” Morrigan said quietly. “There are hats that hide marks. Hats that soften the pull. Hats that help you sleep when the tether keeps you awake.” His gaze slid to Connor.
“But there is no hat that undoes an oath made in this village.”
Connor’s voice was low. “We didn’t mean it in the way it’s been taken.”
Morrigan’s eyes were steady. “Meaning is not the only ingredient.”
Adrian shifted again, rolling his shoulder. Connor took a step forward, and the tug between them tightened. Not painful but intimate, like a hand closing around his wrist.
Connor froze. “What the hell is that?”
“It happens when you move closer,” Adrian muttered.
Connor’s face twisted. “Stop it.”
Adrian’s laugh was short. “I’m not doing it.”
Morrigan’s voice was gentle. “It will get worse before it gets manageable.”
Connor snapped, “Manageable?”
Morrigan nodded. “You learn the boundaries. You learn what it means. You learn how to live with another person’s presence inside your skin.”
Connor felt sick. But he couldn’t deny he felt calmer. As if some part of him had been braced for years, waiting for a comfort he could finally lean into. He didn’t tell Adrian. He couldn’t.
Morrigan watched Adrian for a long moment, as if reading his thoughts. Then he said softly, “The binding often brings together what would otherwise circle forever.”
“We weren’t circling,” Connor responded sharply.
Adrian kept his gaze on the hats.
Morrigan continued, unruffled. “The village doesn’t waste magic. If it bound you, it’s because something in you is compatible. Complementary. Dangerous, perhaps. Necessary.”
Connor laughed bitterly. “Necessary for what?”
Morrigan’s eyes flicked toward the window, and he scanned the streets and mountains. “To defeat the Council,” he said. “To save a life.”
Connor’s skin prickled. “What did you say?”
Morrigan didn’t answer immediately. He walked back to the chairs and crouched in front of Adrian. “Let me see your shoulder,” Morrigan said.
Adrian recoiled. “No.”
Morrigan’s gaze was kind but unyielding. “Adrian.”
Connor’s voice cut in. “He said no.”
Morrigan looked up at Connor, and something old and sharp moved behind his eyes. “And you think you get to decide what happens in this village?”
Connor’s hands clenched. “I think he gets to decide what happens to his body.”
Morrigan held Connor’s gaze for a beat, then nodded, as if conceding a point. “Fair.” He looked back at Adrian. “Then decide.”
Adrian swallowed hard. “It’s probably nothing.”
Morrigan’s expression said he didn’t believe him. Connor’s gaze was fixed on Adrian, his concern sharpening into buried anger.
Adrian made an exasperated sound and stood abruptly, shrugging out of his coat and tugging his shirt collar down enough to expose the top of his shoulder.
His skin was reddened, probably from scratching, and beneath the obvious something like ink under water, but darker and forming.
A curved line, a suggestion of a symbol.
Adrian stared at it, his eyes wide.