Page 88 of The Dark, Dead, Deep

My brow furrowed.Was that true?I wondered. “I was a quiet child, I have been told.”

“I didn’t sayquiet.” Shay chuckled. “No one could make that distinction.”

“It’s different here,” I admitted, the truth dragging from my throat all too easily. “In Cruinn, I was watched constantly for signs that I would be as mad as my mother.”

“Your mother’s madness was caused by the High Throne.” Shay’s voice turned soft as he reached forward and adjusted the bed; his littlest finger brushed mine, and I jolted at the slightest touch. It must have been the nymph magic at work—though why I had enough of my facilities to be aware of it I didn’t know.

I didn’t want to mention that I had sat on the High Throne at my uncle’s behest many times. Perhaps I was as mad as people said I was…as mad as my mother was.

I exhaled deeply.

“Can I touch your hand?” Shay asked lightly.

“Yes,” I said, though it sounded like I would rather do anything but.

Shay chuckled throatily. “As if you are being dragged to the pit of the underworld itself.”

My cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean….”

“I know you didn’t,” he assured me as his eyes sparkled with amusement. Shay reached forward, and, using the pads of his fingers, he traced a line over my knuckles. Where the skin drew taught, and the bones became mountains under my skin. I had never thought that the hands were a specifically erotic part of the body, but as Shay brushed my skin as light as a feather, I found myself squirming and doing my best to hide it.

“What did you like to do in the castle?” Shay urged gently, his full attention on me as if anything I would say would be the most important thing he had ever heard.

My brow furrowed, but before I could speak, Shay interrupted. “This isn’t an interrogation. We’re just talking.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “I liked to go to the hall of silvers.”

“Silvers?” Shay’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Those were all destroyed.”

I smiled despite myself. “No. A few remain. My favorite is covered in black sea glass.”

“Black sea glass, you say?” He murmured thoughtfully as he glanced over his shoulder to where Rainn and Tormalugh stood. Shay shook his head as if to clear it. “Anything else?”

I thought for a moment. “I liked to go to the stables. Though I wasn’t good at riding. The enchantments that kept the steeds in tact were too complicated for me, but the horses seemed almost real. As if they could understand me, even though they were made of reeds, stone, and bubbles.”

“The royal stables of Cruinn are said to be one of the greatest examples of undine magic.” Shay nodded. “Enchanting objects seems to be a specialty for the undine.”

“Yes. It is,” I said, feeling my good mood drain away as I was reminded of why I was there. In the bed of the King of Tarsainn, praying that we could wake him. “What about the villages?” My change in subject was not so subtle that it went unnoticed, but Shay made no comment on it.

“The nymph villages?” Shay leaned back, frowning.

“Yes.” I nodded. “I saw but a glimpse, but from what Vidalia said, you are engaged to be married. Is that true?” I looked down at his hand brushing over my skin somewhat pointedly.

“Ah,” Shay reclined further. “You fear intimacy.”

“What?” I was aghast. How had he figured me out so quickly?.

A pained expression flashed over Shay’s face, there one instant and gone the next. “Are you waiting for your shíorghrá”

I rolled my eyes and slapped him on the shoulder more playfully than I thought I was capable of. “To have a shíorghrá is a wonderful thing.”

“Certainly,” he agreed. “If you can find the blasted thing.”

I quirked a brow. “Surely, a creature of inspiration and healing such as yourself can find the beauty in knowing that there is one person out there that the gods have determined is just for you. One person to see your soul’s design and the beautiful shíorghrá scar on your skin, invisible to all others. One person who will accept you beyond the boundaries of refinement and politics, to be yours, as the gods choose?”

Shay’s green eyes widened. “You’re a romantic.”

I scoffed. “I’m a realist. I have yet to find a person with a scar that only I can see. How does one even begin to find such a thing? You can’t exactly ask at a ball and say, ‘That person has a rather delightful tattoo on their shoulder. Can you see it too?’.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

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