Page 59 of Heir of Autumn
Sylvain chattered as we went down the winding corridors of the academy, all the way back to our bedchambers. I nodded and smiled in all the right places as he went on about the Verdance, how it would be easier to transport more Wispwater after the first time, now that we had a system.
But his words trailed off as we fell into the last corridor to our room. He narrowed his eyes and squeezed my shoulder, bringing the both of us to a stop.
“Something is bothering you, little human.”
I forced a smile and bumped my head against his shoulder. “I just have this weird feeling that things aren’t right, somehow. Yes, we’ve come to others for the help we need, and we’ve done what we can, but I can’t help worrying about the Withering.”
“You’ve said it yourself,” Sylvain said, softly, kindly. He pressed his forehead against mine, covered my hands in his. “Why worry twice? We’ll fight the battles as they come. For now, we need to rest. Mind and body both. I know it’s difficult, Lochlann, but you have to let go.”
He was right. I exhaled, and somehow the weight of it all didn’t seem as heavy. Forget being my eidolon. Sylvain was helpful to me in more ways than he understood. I brought his hands up to my face, laid a kiss across his knuckles.
“Thank you,” I muttered. “I really do love you.”
Why did it seem so difficult to say before? Now it flowed out of me like wind, like water. It was the truth, wasn’t it? I could say it over and over again, with my words, my actions, my body.
Sylvain grinned. “And I love you. Come. It’s time to rest. Mind and body both.”
We entered our bedchambers to find Satchel kneeling over the menu card on the breakfast table. He tapped it, hands cupped around his mouth.
“Cutler? It’s Satchel. We don’t want any food right now, but I need you to come over real quick.”
I cocked an eyebrow as I shut the door behind us. What pixie trickery was this? “You’d better be playing nice, Satchel. I don’t know what you’re up to, but — ”
Satchel sprang to his feet, cheeks puffed up, arms crossed. “I’m totally playing nice. I’m the nicest. Hush. Don’t spoil this.”
I cocked the other eyebrow. Spoil what, exactly? Satchel sure was being cryptic. A puff of smoke appeared on the breakfast table, not far from Satchel himself. Cutler the kitchen imp stepped out, waving wisps of smoke from his face.
“Hey, Prince Beefcake,” Cutler said, beckoning with his fingers. “You haven’t forgotten about our little deal, have you?”
Sylvain grunted. “How could I forget?”
He rummaged through the drawers I’d reserved for him, grumbling to himself the whole time. At last he pulled out a beautifully decorated basket, filled to the brim with treats from the Verdance. He’d actually brought Bruna and Namirah their own baskets as well. This was the only one to be given grudgingly.
Sylvain placed the basket on the table with a huff. “Here are your promised sweets, little hellion. Your ill-gotten goods.”
Cutler rubbed his hands together, then pounced on the basket, grabbing the handle greedily. “Glorious. I’ll be sure to share these with the boys in the kitchens, see if we can’t learn one or two things about your Verdance desserts.”
“Wait,” Satchel said, stamping his foot. “I called you here for a reason.”
“Oh. Right.”
Satchel reached above him, pinching his fingers over an invisible zipper, then pulling down, opening a rift into one of his pocket dimensions.
“Nifty,” Cutler said.
“Thanks,” Satchel answered, tongue half-sticking out of his mouth as he rummaged through the dimension. I gave Sylvain a puzzled look. We both shrugged. Satchel finally pulled something out of the pocket dimension. Something familiar.
“Hey,” I said, snapping my fingers. “It’s that thing you’ve been working on, with the supplies from Doctor Fang’s office.”
“Damn right, it is,” Satchel said, his chest thrust out as he whipped the thing against the air, like he was dusting it. He held it up for all of us to see.
It was a black vest, made almost to match Satchel’s own signature green vest, only this one had more elaborate embroidery work put into it. Yellow, orange, and red thread had been carefully sewn to resemble flames licking up from the bottom. It looked like a grandma’s interpretation of a biker’s leathers.
“Wait,” Cutler said, pointing at the vest, then at his chest. “That’s exactly my size. Is that — is that for me?”
“It is,” Satchel said, beaming as he handed it over.
Cutler gathered it up in his arms, pushed his face happily into the fabric. My insides went warm and gooey. Cutler sniffled. “No one’s ever made clothes for me before.”
