Page 53 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
Which means Ceridwen could be in Y Lle Tywyll by now. She could be dead.
My sister could bedead.
I force myself up and lumber for the door, but the moment my hand grasps the wood, Neirin appears on the threshold. I startle and stagger forward, colliding hard with his chest. He catches me, and my face burns hotter than coals.
Neirin’s changed too, into a billowing lilac shirt that he hasn’t bothered to lace, revealing three silver chains adorned with charms that match his earrings. He grips my elbows, the soft silk of his shirt cool against my skin.
“You should be abed.” He frowns.
“I should be in Y Lle Tywyll.” I try to push past him, but my legs give way. One of his arms snakes around my back to steady me, his hand splaying between my shoulder blades.
“By all means: you seem more than ready to—”
“Point taken.” I cut him off, still grasping his arms to stay upright. He’s strong beneath his foppish shirt, and warm. “Where am I?”
“My court. I’ll get the healer—”
“I’m fine. Just… hungry, I think.”
“Habren”—his tone is cautious—“you’re lucky your wound didn’t fester, and that we got here as quickly as we did.”
I squeeze his arms. “Thank you, but I need to go. You know I do.”
Neirin gently pushes me back into the room, and I don’t have enough strength to fight. He directs me to the bed and lowers me to sit. Then he kneels at my feet, his hands resting on my knees. There’s linen between us, but I lose all color as I wonder who put me in this nightgown and pray it wasn’t him.
“Time moves differently here,” he says. “I can manipulate it. For you.”
My stomach turns itself inside out. Can I afford to rest here? While Ceridwen is still not found? I almost can’t believe it, but it must be the truth. More than that, he’s given me the gift of time. A gift that makes my heart race at the possibilities and stills my quick tongue. I have a moment, stretched to infinity, to breathe. A moment I can take for myself, without endangering my sister.
Neirin bows his head, and my fingers itch to touch his dark curls as they bounce against my lap—but before I can gather the courage, he rises and steps away.
“Stay here, I’ll bring you tea.”
I open my mouth to protest, but why should I? If time is holding still, then everything else has been turned upside down, too. Someone can wait onmefor a change. I try not to look too thrilled when I nod.
Neirin disappears, but I do not heed his advice. I pull myself up from the bed and try to shake off the shackles of exhaustion from my legs. I’ve never been one to sit still, and even now that I have the chance it seems pointless. There’s much to see, even in this room. In the wardrobe I find a bizarre array of fabrics, some of which I’ve never seen before. I open another door and find a bathroom with pipes that look like the ones in the palace kitchens that produced hot water on demand.Thatwill be getting tried later. The more I move, the better I start to feel. I touch my stomach again, and I can feel no sign of a wound or even a scar. I pause at the window, looking out over rolling grounds ringed by a pretty stream. There’s no one around, and I wonder if we’re the only people here.
“I told you to stay put,” Neirin says.
I whip around as he enters. He’s carrying a tray bearing two cups of tea and some biscuits. He lays it on the bed and sits down. I join him without any of the fuss I entertained at the inn a mere night before, the tray forming a small barrier between us.
“When have I ever listened?” I ask. “Is this safe for me?”
He glances at the tea and shrugs. “I prepared it myself.”
It’s not quite an answer, but, despite myself, I trust him. I trust that Neirin wants to win the favor as much as I want to reach my sister, and that, strangely, he likes me. I don’t think he would want to see me come to harm.
I reach for the tea, which looks weak until I put it to my lips. It tastes exactly how I would make it for myself, with just the right amount of milk. The biscuits too look rather plain, until I bite into one and taste shortbread—the fancy stuff Gran gets from the baker at Christmas. Magic has some rather remarkable uses.
“You seem recovered,” he says.
“I was tired, I think. Your healer seems to have dealt with the worst of it.”
His eyes flick low on my abdomen, and his lips go thin.
“What?” I say. “It’s fine now.”
“Yes,” Neirin replies, face drawn and eyes narrowed, “but I don’t like the thought of you getting hurt in the first place. Isn’t that odd?”
