Page 128 of Threadbound

Bran was putting several things into a leather satchel—this one a bluish tone, although it matched the style of the one still in Jamie’s apartment. Several glass jars with herbs, some vials with viscous liquids, and a few other odds and ends—stones, bundles of sticks, bunches of dried herbs. Jamie stayed out of the way, leaning against the window ledge and running his fingers through Patch’s soft fur as Bran moved around the room, muttering to himself.

Jamie felt his forehead pulling together in a frown. He was tired, but Bran looked wrung out. Even though they’d both been awake the same amount of time, Jamie knew how difficult impending grief was to carry. His momma had slowly faded—first her sharpness, then her memories, then her ability to do anything… and finally it was just her breathing shell, lying in a hospice bed while Jamie watched her empty eyes blink slowly at the blank wall. Her death had felt like someone had removed a particularly horrific and painful bandaid—sharp and raw, but also a relief. He still felt guilty about the relief. He probably always would.

But if Bran was right about what theBean Nighe’s remark to Jamie had meant, then he might not have to watch his father die, might not have to endure what Jamie had endured at his momma’s bedside. Jamie would do a lot to spare him that kind of pain. Even if he wasn’t sure Bran was right about what the crone had said.

Having hope was better than grim certainty. Maybe even when it was false hope.

Bran handed Jamie the first satchel, which he put on his shoulder, then found another, this one a canvas-like material. Then the fae turned to one of the many shelves in the room, running a finger over the spines as he searched for—and found—a handful of books, all of which were tucked into the bag. Patch was paying closer attention to them, now, and Jamie could have sworn she was giving them both a disapproving look. As though she knew they were planning on leaving her again.

“Sorry, Patch,” he murmured softly. “But you can’t come with us.”

Bran looked up for a moment, his expression thoughtful, then shook his head. “Not this time,” the fae told thegealach marchaiche. “We need to work.”

Patch put her furry head down, setting it on claw-tipped front paws with a huff. Jamie was starting to think that maybe she actually did understand what was happening. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse about leaving her behind.

Bran stuffed a few pieces of clothing in the canvas bag, then swung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“Now?” Jamie asked, the frown still in place.

“Aye, now.”

“You need to rest,” Jamie argued. “At least a couple hours.”

Bran’s eyes were almost feverish. “I canna?—”

“How long does he have?” Jamie interrupted him, trying to compensate for the harshness of the question by using a gentle tone.

Bran’s expression was stricken, and Jamie couldn’t help himself—he crossed the room and took Bran’s hopeless expression in his hands, cupping the fae’s face in his palms and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Bran leaned into him, drawing a shuddering breath, hands resting on Jamie’s hipbones. “I dinna know,” he whispered.

“Months?” Jamie asked softly. “Or days?”

Another shuddering breath. “I—I think at least a month? But I canna tell. Maigdeann canna tell.” His voice trailed off.

“But you have two hours to sleep so that we don’t accidentally do something wrong,” Jamie pointed out, his lips still moving against the skin of Bran’s forehead.

“I—I dinna think I can.” His voice was so small. So vulnerable.

“Then at least just rest,” Jamie insisted. “Two hours.”

Bran hesitated, then nodded.

He was asleep, his cheek pillowed on Jamie’s chest, before Patch finished settling herself against Jamie’s other thigh.

Jamie could feelBran’s impatience as he filled out the paperwork for a visitor pass to the university’s library. Bran also had to sign several pieces of paper saying he wouldn’t touch anything with his bare fingers, that he’d give up his firstborn child if hedidtouch anything, that his soul was forfeit if he damaged any books, and so on. The usual draconian library forms.

Bran shifted his weight, the soft sound of his clothing surprisingly loud in the silence of the library. Jamie finished signing his name for the third time, surrendering his ID and enduring the librarian’s withering glare as they turned and headed deeper into the library’s reading room.

Bran’s brow was furrowed as Jamie unpacked his laptop and notebook at the reading table. “Where is it?” the fae asked.

“She’ll bring it out,” Jamie answered. “Old books are very fragile, so the librarians get them for you.”

Bran’s frown remained in place. “They dinna let you get your own books?”

Jamie shook his head, half-smothering a smile. “Not these. They’re old and delicate. They could be easily damaged if you handle them wrong, or, God forbid, spill coffee on them.”

Bran’s dark eyebrows arched. “Coffee?”

“Hence them not letting you bring food or drink into this part of the library.”

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