Page 126 of Threadbound

And that led Jamie to wonder if other creatures—the Loch Ness monster, vampires, bigfoot—were also real. Or at least loosely based on actual fae creatures. Bran had explained that werewolves were actually Sluagh fae called wulvers, shape-shifters whose fae forms were not all that far from what Jamie imagined werewolves might look like. It didn’t seem unreasonable to Jamie that other supposedly fantastical creatures might also be—or at least have their folkloric origins in—fae.

He’d never heard of anything like thegealach marchaiche, though. Or like Bran or some of the other fae he’d met. Of course, Jamie hadn’t been particularly interested in that part of folklore. Folkmedicine, yes. But he’d always thought he was confining himself to the parts of folk culture that were real.

Jamie now had a completely different perspective onreal. Magic was real. Fairies were real. There were impossible creatures and potions and spells. Things that made no sense to him, although Bran had tried to describe the rules that governed them, patiently explaining that magic was a science just like Jamie’s chemistry and medicine—it had laws, just like physics, except completely different from anything Jamie had ever known or understood.

He was trying, though. Not simply because his research now seemed to span both worlds, but—perhaps even more importantly—because he wanted to understand Bran and the world he came from. Jamie was glad that he had both excuses to ask questions, although he still felt like there were somefundamental concepts he was just failing to grasp. Some piece ofsomethingthat just hadn’t yet fallen into place.

Bran didn’t fully seem to understand the recipes that had become Jamie’s research obsession, either—both of them were missing something. It was infuriating from a scholarly perspective.

At the moment, Jamie had time—he was waiting, either for news of Cairn’s health or for Bran or someone else to come find him—and the room he was in contained paper, charcoal pencils, and ink-pens that were more or less like the fountain pens Jamie liked, but couldn’t afford. Having nothing else to do, Jamie began a list of the things he knew about the recipe—The Draught for the Breathing Dead. He couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that it was somehow related to what the odd crone had said to him... But he didn’t understand what she’d meant by ‘breathing dead men.’ It wasn’t quite the same, but it was so very similar…

Jamie felt, again, like he was missing something. Something important.

He wished Bran were here to talk to. But Jamie very much doubted that Bran was going to be interested in talking about Jamie’s research insecurities right now.

Jamie had filled multiple pages with notes and sketches by the time someone—a small, long-faced creature with what looked like goat legs and pointed hooves—came to bring him more food and take away the dishes from his earlier meal. It took all his willpower to stifle the impulse to automatically thank the creature, and then spent at least an hour worrying about how to show his gratitude when the creature came back.

Agitated, Jamie ended up rooting through most of the drawers and chests in the room, finding—with some surprise and pleasure—that one of the smaller wooden chests sitting out on a side table held skeins of yarn, ribbons, and threads that felt like wool and cashmere and cotton and silk. At first, he’dhesitated, but then he realized that someone must have put it here on purpose for him. He busied himself knotting together a bracelet in shades of grey, brown, blue, and red, with the notion of leaving it for the creature who had brought him his dinner of cheese, bread, spiced meat, and a fruit that reminded him a little of a pear crossed with something dark and tart, like a cranberry.

When the creature came back and looked down at the knotted yarn, confused, Jamie had smiled. “It’s for you.”

The creature’s too-big, horizontally slit eyes—a cool blue-grey—widened, and it touched one finger to its chest.

Jamie nodded. “Yes.”

Its pinkish skin flushed, and then it smiled, showing him teeth that were almost alarmingly big—almost like a beaver’s teeth, square and very white.

Jamie smiled back, trying to keep the shock at the size of its teeth off his features. It left humming, its expression pleased, so he figured he’d probably managed that successfully.

It was late—very late—and Jamie was tired, but he wanted to try to acclimate to the rhythms of the Court of Shades this time, if only because he knew Bran preferred those hours, and only humored Jamie’s internal clock because he knew Jamie had to work. But in Elfhame, Jamie wasn’t the one who had places to be at particular times of day… or night.

That, and he was hoping to see Bran again, and he didn’t want to miss that opportunity because he fell asleep. But he was too tired to go back to work—his brain couldn’t focus—so he turned, instead, to the threads and yarns and ribbons in the small chest.

Jamie looked up blearily when the door opened, surprised that the creature had come back after the sky had started turning predawn-grey. But it wasn’t his new hoofed friend—it was Bran.

Jamie put down the lacy thing—he had no idea what it was or what it would become—he’d tied together and stood, uncertainwhat to do or say. Wanting to help assuage the grief and exhaustion he could see so clearly in the lines of Bran’s sharp inhuman features.

Bran closed the door, then looked up at him.

Jamie stepped forward, uncertainly holding up one hand, although he had no idea what he was going to do with it.

Bran crossed the room and stepped directly into his arms, his forehead coming to rest against Jamie’s collar bone. Jamie held him close with one arm, gently stroking his fingers through Bran’s feathery hair with the other, feeling the fae’s fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, feeling the rise and fall of Bran’s back as the smaller fae sobbed into his chest.

Jamie wasn’t sure what to say. He never had been, when the person crying in his arms was one of his half-brothers or -sisters after being yelled at or struck by their father, when it had been a friend with a broken heart, or when it was his own heart that had been broken. So he just held Bran close, letting him weep out his fear and grief and frustration into the knit of Jamie’s sweater.

The sun had finished rising by the time Bran calmed, although Jamie was more than willing to hold him for ten times as long. Bran drew in a long breath, then let it out, his back moving under Jamie’s hand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jamie asked softly.

“He’s dying,” came the response, low and sad. “He knew what it was when the symptoms started. Because it’s the same poison that was given to Cuileann mac Eug.”

Jamie tried to remember who that was. “The Holly King?”

Bran nodded against Jamie’s chest. “Aye.”

“Didn’t you say he was poisoned thousands of years ago?” Jamie asked.

Bran nodded again.

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