Page 122 of The Mirror of Beasts

“Of course,” Emrys said.

“I believe the same about you,” I said. “Nothing about you is wrong, not to me.”

He let out a shuddering breath.

“Irritating, sneaky, and a bit of a dork about plants, yes,” I added. “But dark? No. You wish you had that much edge.”

Emrys shook his head, but there was a small smile on his lips. “I prefer playfully mischievous to sneaky.”

“Sneaky,” I repeated, crossing my arms over my chest. My own heart was still hammering away against my ribs, as if the moment were spinning too quickly around me. If he had touched me then, if his fingers or lips had followed the path his eyes had taken down my face—

I drew in a sharp breath, shaking my head.

The fire sputtered out to its final few flames. I started to crawl toward the remaining wood in the pile, but Emrys beat me to it. By the way he took his time, carefully arranging the wood, I wondered if he’d needed a moment alone with his own thoughts.

It all felt too fragile; as if saying anything would shatter whatever this truce was between us, if it could even be called that. Nothing felt right, but I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t be the one to go to him when he was the one who had left.

But he’s still here, I thought, dragging my pack over to me. The sleeping bag was decades old, but it would be better than suffering the indignity of trying to squeeze onto a toddler-sized bed. The rug at least provided some padding and protection from the hard-packed dirt floor.

Emrys unrolled his plush sleeping bag beside mine. I was about to point out a spot closer to the door, but I quickly realized that the mound was so narrow, we’d both have to lie lengthwise to fit.

“This feels—” he began.

“Don’t say it,” I said.

I settled down onto my side, keeping my face to the wall where I’d seen the etchings of the little family before. As Emrys lay down beside me, facing the other way, it was hard to tell what was providing more heat to my back, him or the fire.

“So … your dad’s a ghoul of the Wild Hunt,” I said, when the silence had finally become unbearable. “Appropriate.”

“Yeah,” Emrys said, turning over to lie flat on his back. I turned over too, as if pulled by some unseen tether. He caught my eye, and a sad, sardonic smile touched his lips. “Now he’s as ugly on the outside as he was on the inside.”

“Well, my not-dad is not-dead dead as well,” I said. “So don’t start thinking you’re special, Dye.”

“About that …,” Emrys began, his brow furrowing. I had to lace my fingers together over my chest to keep from reaching out to smooth the skin there. To run my fingers down the curve of his cheek. “How exactly is Nash alive?”

“I guess it’s more like … reborn? Remade?” I said. “So far showing no signs of being interested in consuming blood or brains, but he remains an utter rapscallion.”

Emrys seemed to process this in stride. “Death magic, then?”

“The coin.”

His brows shot up as he found the right memory. I nodded.

“I hesitate to ask this, knowing how much you adore these touchyfeely conversations,” Emrys began, “but are you all right?”

The stinging barb was right there, and so easy to reach for. It was a reflex now—the dagger of sarcasm or irritation flung back to avoid having to think about how I felt, or what I thought, on a deeper level.

“I’m … processing,” I said finally.

For a long while, there was no sound but the duet of the pleasant, homey crackling of the fire and the moaning of the wind. I closed my eyes, trying to push the image of the others still wandering in the blizzard from my mind.

“I can practically feel you thinking,” Emrys murmured. “Are you worried about the others?”

It should have unnerved me that he’d read my thoughts so perfectly, but instead, I found it almost … comforting.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I don’t understand how we got separated when we crossed into Lyonesse.” That thought drew up another, and my eyes snapped back open. “How did you get here, anyway?”

“Same way you did, I assume,” Emrys said. “The Hag of the Mist.”

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