“You are afraid to show her everything.” The hair on the backs of Aodhan’s arms rose at Motley’s clear, certain words, so unlike the raven shifter’s usual broken syntax. “You are afraid to admit the truth, even to yourself. You fear what you might lose, and so you do not see what you are missing.”
“I’m not missing anything, thank you very much. I don’t need a—” Aodhan hesitated, not wanting to say the word out loud even within the muffling confines of the privacy spell. “I don’t need anyone. And don’t you dare breathe a word of this to her, you hear? Herne’s balls, you of all people should understand what freedom means to me. You know how hard I had to work for everything I have now. Though I suppose you’ve forgotten all of that.”
“Do remember. At least, do now.” Motley’s voice cracked, losing that prophet-like tone. He looked down at the book in his hands, running his thumb over the hand-embossed number on the spine. “Will forget, when I’m not here again. Hard to hold on to things. That’s why you should show her.”
Aodhan frowned. “I fail to see how that could possibly help you.”
“Not me. Too late for that.” Motley’s obsidian eyes were unreadable. “You. Show her, Aodhan. Who you are, who she truly is. Before it’s too late. Before you lose everything. Like me.”
A slight tingle in Aodhan’s chest warned him that Cathy was returning. He barely had enough time to banish the privacy spell before she reappeared, stepping out of the shadows.
All other thoughts fell out of his head.
On another woman, the dress might have been simple, even modest. On her, the clean lines simply drew attention to Cathy herself.
Small leaf-shaped crystals spiraled down long, tight sleeves, leading the eye from the elegant curve of her shoulders to her strong, graceful hands. Her collarbones rose from the square-cut bodice, perfectly framed by twining beadwork briars stitched around the neckline. Against the rich emerald velvet, her skin was smooth as cream; her hair, a thousand shades of autumn.
A belt of white leather worked in the shape of stylized roses clasped her waist. More roses bloomed across her full, sweeping skirts. With every step, tiny diamonds glittered, caught amidst embroidered petals like drops of dew.
Catching his stunned stare, Cathy flushed. She dropped her own gaze, hands smoothing the front of the gown self-consciously.
“It’s a bit extra,” she said. “Are you sure this isn’t going to attract too much attention?”
Aodhan swallowed hard. “Woman, you could be wearing sackcloth and ashes, and every eye would still be on you. More importantly, is it comfortable?”
Cathy turned from side to side, rotating her shoulders. This did remarkable things to her chest. With iron willpower, Aodhan kept his gaze above the level of her chin.
“It is, actually.” Cathy sounded somewhat surprised. She fingered the crystal beadwork around one cuff. “I thought it would be scratchy, but it’s soft as butter. It hardly feels like I’m wearing anything at all.”
That was far too tempting a mental image. Aodhan dragged his mind away from it, turning to Motley. “I take it you remembered your errand?”
The raven shifter nodded. He slid off the bookcase, briefly shimmering into a flurry of white wings before resuming his humanoid form. He unslung a long, cloth-wrapped bundle from his shoulder, offering it to Cathy.
She took it, casting Aodhan a quizzical glance. He motioned her to open it, and her puzzled frown deepened as she exposed a dark, simple scabbard. A plain hilt—just a simple, leather-wrapped grip, without hand guard or pommel—protruded from the top.
“A sword?” Cathy held the scabbard at arm's length, as though it might contain a live snake. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Aodhan. What if someone expects me to be able to use it?”
“Then you can hit them over the head with it, just like you did me.” Aodhan took a step back, bracing himself. “Draw it. Though not too far, please.”
With another dubious look, she gripped the hilt. It fit into her hand as though made for her—which, of course, it had been. Aodhan had sent detailed sketches to the smith along with the raw materials.
Cathy twisted her wrist, exposing a finger-length of dull black metal. The crow-cat, who had been peacefully grooming herself on Aodhan’s desk, hissed and shot away. Under the table, Noodle let out a high, distressed whine, tail clamping between his legs.
Cathy stared from the cowering puppy to the weapon in her hand. “Is this iron?”
“Your iron, to be accurate. I had Motley take it to a troll smith yesterday to be recast. Much as I’d love to see you brain some arrogant seelie with a broken frying pan, it seemed better for you to carry something a little less conspicuous.” Aodhan grimaced at the unadorned hilt. “Sorry. Due to the time constraint, it’s rather more basic than I would have liked. I can fancy up the scabbard for you later, but there’s not a lot I can do about the sword itself. Even I can’t transmute cold iron.”
“Didn’t like touching it,” Motley said, from flat against the wall. He’d shrunk back like the animals when Cathy bared the blade. “No memories in iron. Just cold and hunger. Let it go back to sleep now, yes?”
She slid the sword back into its sheath, and Motley’s hunched shoulders relaxed. Noodle crept out from under the table to press against Cathy’s shin. The crow-cat, tail puffed up like a pinecone, scolded them all from the root-covered rafters.
“I’m not expecting you to have to actually fight,” Aodhan said, since Cathy still looked rather uncertain about the whole business. “Not unless things have gone very wrong. But a changeling on an errand for her court would always carry cold iron. And it’ll make any seelie warrior think twice about challenging you. Try it on.”
Cathy ran her fingers through the tangle of straps dangling from the scabbard. “I don’t know how.”
“Here.” He took the sword, kneeling at her left side. “Hold still.”
Cathy stood, arms out, as he threaded the straps through her belt. He adjusted the buckles so that the weapon hung at her hip, doing his best not to think about the soft, velvet-swathed curves beneath his fingers.