Page 31 of Heart Cradle
The boys snorted, but Fenric had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, but only vaguely. The three youngest brothers went to the kitchen, in hopes of starting an evening meal. They spent the time bickering and playfighting before deciding to butcher a bag of dried meat.
“I’m just saying,” Calen said, stabbing at something with a wooden spoon, “it looked like meat when I found it.”
“That’s a terrible justification,” Soren replied. “You can’t feed us mystery meat stew, bloody idiot.”
Fenric leaned against the kitchen doorway, chewing some thoughtfully. “Tastes alright to me.”
“Of course it does,” Soren muttered. “You ate an insect on a dare two days ago.”
“It wasn’t a dare, shithead. It was a nutritious snack.”
Branfil groaned and turned to the pantry, muttering under his breath about how he should’ve stayed behind and let them all starve. The commotion had woken Maeve a nap in an oversized armchair near the fire. She now sat, magicked coffee hand, boots kicked off and her clothes stiff with the dried blood of the Glade Stalker. It was inky-black, tar-thick stuff that reeked faintly of death and rot and streaked up her arms, across her collar and even into her hair. She didn’t care for now, she was warm, she was alive, and the laughter around her felt like sunlight on skin.
Eiran had been across the room, lounging against the wall, watching his brothers fail at cooking with half-hearted advice. He pushed away from the wall and crossed towards her with that infuriating kind ofself-assurance only he could carry without looking ridiculously smarmy. He stopped just in front of her, eyes sparkling.
“That stuff’s going to stain your bones,” he said, eyeing the black blood splattered down her tunic.
Maeve raised a brow and sipped her coffee. “Then it’ll match my soul.”
He grinned. “Dark, moody, and mildly venomous?”
“Add very tired and you’ve got the full set.” She pressed her lips together on the last syllable.
“Up, dear lady,” he said, extending a hand. “Time to wash, before you start attracting pests, or worse, more admirers.”
She stared at him, lips twitching now. “Are you offering to scrub me down, Prince Eiran?”
“I’m just escorting you to a room with hot water and clean towels. What happens next is entirely up to your gratitude.”
The boys howled.
“Oooooh!” Calen shouted from the kitchen. “Look at our princely guide, offering service with a smile!”
Soren leaned dramatically against the doorframe. “Better not come back until one of you is glowing.”
“Boys,” Branfil snapped again, though his lips twitched.
Maeve rolled her eyes as she stood as she took Eiran’s outstretched hand. The dried ichor cracked as she moved, flaking like old paint. She half-heartedly glared at the three brothers and gave them the finger. Eiran didn’t let go as together, they walked down the hallway, the banter faded behind them, voices still laughing. The Cottage was peaceful, but it was more than that. It was full of breath, and bodies, and warmth. It felt like something healing, something that soothed her soul.
Chapter Fifteen – Reunion
The bedroom was larger than Maeve expected, wider than the modest door implied, and taller too, despite the sloping ceiling. The stone walls had been painted a soft, creamy hue that warmed the space without betraying its age. Thick tapestries hung along the north wall, stitched in mossy greens and earthy browns, their edges gently fraying. Two of them depicted curling vines and strange constellations she didn’t recognise.
A wide bed dominated the far end, nestled beneath a half-moon window where silver dusk filtered through gauzy linen. The quilt was dark green and plum, threadbare in places but beautifully so, its swirling embroidery softened by time and countless hands. Folded woollen blankets in more earth tones were stacked neatly at the foot. An old cedar chest stood nearby, its lid slightly bowed, its surface etched with years of use, and a faint scent of lavender. A mismatched table and spindle-back chair sat near the hearth, one leg propped up by a yellowing book Maeve suspected had been read a dozen times. Another volume lay open on the tabletop beside a dark violet stone, smooth, faceted, its surface pulsing faintly with enchantment. Hovering just above it, a faelight drifted like a firefly at rest, glowing yellow and bobbing gently in the still air, casting ripples of warmth across the scuffed wood.
Aeilanna had explained faelights in the cell. Maeve had seen them often enough since. But still, seeing magic so bare, so woven into the furniture of a home, made something old and rational in her flinch. She sat on the windowsill, her back turned to the room. The window was open a crack, just enough to let in the warm afternoon air and the scent of pine and hearth smoke. She could see the thinning line of forest in the distance, stretching beyond the fields. In the sky, shadows moved, broad-winged silhouettes wheeling far above the treetops.
Birds, she told herself.Just really big birds.
Behind her, she heard Eiran move, his boots thudding lightly on the wooden floor. A moment later came the soft whoosh of water, and she turned her head just enough to see him disappear into the adjoining bathroom.
“Don’t touch the taps, love,” he called out. “They’re fussy.”
“Fussy?”
“Intention magic. One wrong thought and it’s either ice water or an accidental indoor flood.”
She turned properly now, leaning her shoulder against the frame. “So if you’re in a bad mood, the bath just attacks?”
