Chapter 22

Twenty-Two

Rhoswyn

“ G ood. You’re here.” Cressida looks up from the small table in the corner of the dusty ballroom with a tired look on her face.

She’s sitting in a plush armchair, a cup of steaming tea cradled in her hands as she surveys me. A single candle on the table illuminates her, but even with so little light, it’s obvious this room hasn’t been used in a long time.

Dust motes swarm around me as I walk, and the heavy drapes that cover the windows are crowned with thick cobwebs. In the centre of the room, three large chandeliers have been lowered to the floor and covered in white linens.

“Come.” Cressida snaps her fingers at me, pushing the book in my direction. “I have something you might be interested in reading. A necromancer’s journal.”

“Tread carefully, kid,” Maeve mumbles, appearing out of nowhere.

I don’t want to tread carefully. My back is aching, and I’m tired from flying all morning. Now I have to deal with a temperamental queen.

“It was prescribed to her as a means of managing the constant presence of spirits that were driving her mad,” Cressida continues as I finally reach her. “She only kept up the practice for a few months, but there are useful bits and pieces here and there.”

I bend my head and skim the vertical lines of text, grateful anew for Cyreus’s magic. If I were still illiterate, no doubt Cressida would be even more grouchy than she already is. After a few minutes of reading the confused ramblings of what I can only assume is a past queen of the Autumn Court, Cressida gets impatient and taps a line on the far right of the page.

“Here. She used to hold balls for the ghosts, and here she talks about how, because of that, the ballroom has slowly become a place where the veil between Faerie and the Otherworld is thinner. She could hear the spirits without even trying. Which makes it the perfect place for you to practise calling vast numbers of ghosts across at once.”

I look at her, reading the tightness in her expression, then down at the book. “She was your mother?”

It’s the only conclusion that makes sense. I wondered why Maeve insisted that Cressida could teach me to use this power when she doesn’t possess it herself.

“That’s irrelevant.” Cressida shuts me down. “The veil is thin. Put more effort into using your sight and you might make some progress. We’re not leaving this room until every dead person in here is dancing.”

She sits back, raising the cup to her lips, and waves a hand at me to get on with it.

“But I’ve only called spirits from the Otherworld with their names,” I object.

“Which is what she did.”

“But she knew their names, I don’t.”

Cressida’s hand drags down her face in a display of clear frustration. “Read the book before asking stupid questions. She had their names carved into the floors to make it easier. And no, you’re not to read them aloud. Let your magic do it for you.”

What does that even mean? I try to hold in my frustration, but it boils over anyway.

“You could at least try to teach?—”

“No other necromancer in history has had a teacher,” Cressida interrupts. “They’re as rare as plain-spoken seelie, and they normally don’t live long enough to become mentors. Those that do lead solitary lives, and they still manage to master their magic. You will be no exception.”

“But—”

“You don’t need to be taught. You need to learn what you can do, and then practice until you can do it faultlessly.”

“We don’t have time for that!” I’d love nothing more than to have the time and relaxed environment necessary to experiment with my magic, but there are two wars going on.

“Which is why I’m here to direct your focus.” Cressida rubs her brows, nostrils flaring. “I grew up with someone who lived and breathed death like it was air. I saw a lot, and considering I don’t have the sight, that’s probably barely half of what she could do. My mother never spoke their names aloud. The runes simply glowed, and the ghosts appeared. Reading every single name will waste time you might not have on the battlefield, so you will learn to summon the dead silently.”

She sips the tea, visibly working to calm herself. “Enough arguing. Get on with it.”

Evening is long past fallen when I finally make back to my room. My feet might as well be made of lead, and I come to a stop outside my door, trying to get up the energy to turn the handle.

If I walk in there, and they’re at each other’s throats, I might just be exhausted enough to cry.

I accomplished so much today, but Cressida is the harshest teacher I’ve ever known. She kept her word, not letting me leave the ballroom until I had three dozen ghosts waltzing around in perfect time to a silent hall. They weren’t corporeal, just visible, and it was as eerie as it was taxing. That was after Gryffin—who spent most of our lesson making eyes at Prae until she got fed up with him and left—made me hover for a full hour.

I’m beyond drained, both physically and mentally.

“Coming in, pet?” Lore asks, and I blink as I realise he’s right in front of me.

The door is open, and I’ve just been staring at his chest for the last Goddess-knows-how-long.

“Your wolfie has run you a bath,” he tells me. “And I’ve been waiting very patiently…”

“She’s exhausted, you pervert.” Jaro knocks Lore out of the way.

My redcap is undeterred. “An orgasm will help her get to sleep.”

I open my mouth to tell him that I honestly can’t see getting to sleep being a problem, but all that escapes is an unflattering yawn. Before I can stifle it, my wolf has swept me off my feet and into his strong arms.

“Bath, then sleep,” he orders, a hint of his wolf in his voice.

That’s how, an hour later, I find myself cocooned in enough blankets to immobilise me, or perhaps to keep Lore’s hands off me. I’m not quite sure which. Bree and Drystan still haven’t returned from the front lines, but Lore checked on them both and assured me that they were fine. So I’m surrounded on all sides by my Guard as I update them about my day, each sentence punctuated by a yawn.

“I even learned how to hover, though I might’ve learned faster if Gryffin wasn’t spending the entire time flirting with Prae,” I finish proudly.

Caed snorts. “He’d have better luck flirting with a cactus. She has something against fae princes.”

“Maybe because she has two of them for mates,” I mumble sleepily.

The entire room goes quiet.

“Rosie,” Jaro says, quietly, his hands stroking my face in a way that feels so good but also keeps me from slipping into the coma I so desperately crave. “What do you mean by that?”

“Florian and Gryffin are her mates,” I mumble. “I suppose that explains why Florian gave her his sword. When was someone going to tell me his gift was finding things? That sounds so useful.”

“He doesn’t talk about it,” Jaro replies. “It’s not really a warrior’s gift?—”

“Mates?” Caed interrupts, his voice sharp enough with shock to bring my brain back from the edge of slumber. “I thought they were just fucking. And now she has two fairy princes?” He gets up from his spot on the floor, abandoning the sword he was oiling. “We need to have a talk about…”

But whatever he’s saying becomes inaudible as he gets too far away.

“Someone ought to tell Florian that his mate is being courted by another male,” Jaro mutters, leaving the bed.

“I’ll do it,” I say, shifting and reaching for the edge of my covers. “I’ll write him a letter. I need to tell him about Bram,” I trail off, and Lore squeezes my blanket cocoon silently, keeping me from leaving his side.

“We can do that, pet. I can blink Jaro to the capital, and?—”

“No. It should be me. He… he died for me.” The pressure in my chest constricts. “And he’s my brother.”

“You’re not taking her to a warzone,” Jaro says, and I want to roll my eyes at the double standard. “Write the letter in the morning, Rosie. Right now, you need to rest.”

“Can she write it after I wake her up with my cock?”

Jaro’s wolf peeks out from behind his eyes, a tiny growl slipping free, but I meet his eyes and shake my head.

“You can wake me up however you like.” I turn to Lore and press a kiss to his jaw. “My body is yours. Just let me sleep first.”

And as I snuggle into my mad mate, I hear Jaro mutter, “We really need to make sure she understands what it means when she says that before you get any ideas, redcap.”

But whatever Lore says in reply is lost to the insistent demands of sleep.