She took off her apron, hung it up, made herself some tea, and took two biscuits from the jar. With them, she sat, opened Sorcha’s book, her own, her notebook, her laptop.
In the quiet alone, she began to study all they’d done before, and how they might do it better.
He came in—fully thirty-five minutes late—and drenched. She barely spared him a glance, and said, firmly, “Don’t track up my floor.”
He muttered something she ignored, dried himself quickly. “There’s no point in being annoyed I’m later than I said. One of the horses took sick and needed tending.”
She often forgot he had work of his own. “How bad?”
“It was bad enough, but she’ll be all right. It’s Maggie, and a sudden stable cough. The medicine might have righted her, but . . . well, I wouldn’t risk it.”
“You wouldn’t, no.” And there, she knew him. His softest spot was for animals, for anything and anyone who needed tending. “And couldn’t.” And it had been bad enough, she could see that now as well in the fatigue in his eyes.
“Sit. You need some tea.”
“I wouldn’t mind it, or a couple of those biscuits I smell. The ginger ones?”
“Sit,” she said again, and went to turn up the heat on the kettle.
But he wandered around, restless.
“You’ve been working, I see. New candles not yet set.”
“I’ve a shop to fill. I can’t spend every moment of my day on bloody Cabhan.”
“You can spend it taking offense from me where none was meant. And as it happens I want some candles for myself.”
“Those just made are for gift sets.”
“I’ll have two of those then, as I’ve gifts to buy, and for more . . .” He wandered over to some shelves. “I like these you have here in the mirror jars. They’d shine in the light.” He lifted one, sniffed at it. “Cranberries. It smells of Yule, so that suits, doesn’t it? I’d have a dozen.”
“I don’t have a dozen of those, exactly, on hand. Just the three you see there.”
“You could make the rest.”
She made the tea, slanted him a look. “I could. You’ll have to wait for them until tomorrow.”
“That’ll do. And these tapers as well, the long white ones, the smaller red.”
“Did you come to work or to shop?”
“It’s a fine thing to do both in one place, at one time.” He took what he wanted, set it all on her counter for later.
After he sat, lifted his tea, he looked directly into her eyes. Her heart might have skipped, just once, but she ignored it.
“On the other side of the river, as we knew before. He gathers in the dark, in the deep. A cave, I think, but when and where I don’t know, not for certain.”
“You looked for him. Bloody, buggering hell, Fin—”
“Through the smoke,” he said, coolly. “No point thrashing about on a filthy day like this. I looked through the smoke, and like smoke, it hazed and blurred. But I can tell you he’s not as weak as he was, even days ago. And something’s with him, Branna. Something . . . else.”
“What?”
“Whatever, I think, he bargained with to be what he is, to have what he has. It’s darker yet, deeper yet, and I think . . . I don’t know,” he murmured, rubbing his shoulder where the mark dug into him. “I think it plays him, I think it uses him as much as he uses it, and in his weakness I could see that much. More than I have before. It’s a sense only, this other. But I know, and for certain, he heals, and he will come again before much longer.”
“Then we’ll be ready. What did we miss, Fin? That’s the question. So, let’s find the answer.”
He bit into a biscuit, smiled for the first time since he’d come in. “I might need more than two of these to sustain me while going over these bloody books again.”