Page 71 of Song of the Dark Wood

“I think you’re overly suspicious. Have you been to Ballybrine? Wouldyouwant to stay there?”

Conor cracked a smile. “Fair enough. You should know, Rowan, nothing stays secret from me long.”

“If you say so,” she said.

“I think perhaps you’ve been here so long you forget who and what I am. I’m a vicious beast, Rowan.”

Rowan frowned. “Is that why you put that poor soul out of his misery last night?”

Conor grimaced. “And why did you help him?”

Rowan was baffled by the question. “I helped him because he was in pain, Conor. It was a decent thing to do.”

“By using your magic?”

“It’s not just about magic. Music comforts people. Mothers sing to their babies. People sing at the Gratitude and Grieving Ceremony.”

“So you sang to him out of pity?”

Rowan threw her hands up. “I sang to him out ofempathy. Out ofmercy. Is it easier to live as if every kindness is some secret weapon?”

Conor took a step back. “Do I do that?”

Rowan’s kindness extended to Conor as well. It must have been hard to be a god, always feeling like people wanted things from you. She supposed everyone must beg him for time he could not give them. That at least would explain why he refused to take anything about her at face value. When the whole world wanted something from you, it must be hard to believe that someone could want nothing. For Rowan’s part, the first thing she had done was ask him to renegotiate a centuries-old bargain.Still, she was exhausted and on edge from feeling the constant pressure of failing his tests.

“Charlie told me you found Orla’s paintings,” Conor said softly.

Rowan sighed. A fresh ache bloomed in her chest. “I didn’t even know she liked to paint.”

“She was a hard person to know.”

Rowan only nodded, afraid speaking would reveal the extent of her grief. They stared at each other as an uncomfortable silence settled between them.

“Let me show you something,” Conor said.

He led her down the hall to the eastern wing, carefully guiding her down the rocks that led into the dark tunnel cut by the stream. Rowan took in the smell of moss and wet grass as she followed silently behind Conor. Finally, they emerged into a dim hallway that opened into a large room with stained glass windows. The afternoon light shined through the windows, casting colorful patterns along the stone floor, which was marked with a mosaic forming the jaws of a wolf. It was Conor’s temple.

Rowan followed Conor to the far end of the room. Small markers lined the wall, but Rowan didn’t understand what they were until she approached the one Conor had stopped in front of. There was a glass jar splattered with paint stains and several paintbrushes.

“This is the shrine I made for Orla. There’s one for each of the past Maidens,” Conor said.

Rowan lost count as she looked back down the row, trying to take in how many shrines there were in total. It was startling to consider how many Maidens he might have killed. But she believed Conor hadn’t killed Orla, and that was enough to settle the idea that perhaps he wasn’t as violent as she’d been taught.

When she turned back, Conor looked as stricken as she felt at the loss of her friend. Everything frozen in her chest melted.

As if realizing how the shrine softened her heart toward him, Conor took a step away from her.

“Why did you bring me here?” Rowan asked.

“Charlie said how sad you were. I thought you’d like a place to come if you want to remember her.”

He shifted between truth and lie so seamlessly he may as well have lied all the time. The stain of his deception tarnished all of his truths. She wanted to hang her hopes on his words, but she wasn’t foolish enough. It seemed her life would have been easier if she was ignorant.

“Perhaps you think you can chase away your guilt for failing her by looking after me,” Rowan whispered.

A coldness settled over Conor’s face. His jaw twitched.

“Is it such a bad thing to care?” Rowan asked. She hated the desperation in her voice—hated that she wanted something from him.

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