Page 95 of Across an Endless Sea

Something inside me perks up, and I grin. “This way,” I insist, choosing a direction at random and reaching out to grab his hand and tug him along.

I freeze before I can make contact, remembering too late that he doesn’t like to be touched, but Bree’s spine straightens and he bridges the gap between us with shaking fingers, interlacing our digits with a hesitant smile.

The buzz of touching my Guard skin to skin returns, sinking into my bones and easing any of my remaining tension.

“Lead on, my lady,” he whispers.

Thirty

Bricriu

Following Rose around the inner city is as entertaining as it is sad. For the first hour, she checks back with me whenever she wants to go somewhere, clearly expecting to be told no. Like I could ever refuse her.

I understand how she reached this point. Jaromir and Drystan are incredibly protective, rightly so, but Rose can’t spend her life cooped up in the palace learning from scrolls.

If they saw her like this, eyes sparkling and glamour flickering with excitement, perhaps they’d see that our Nicnevin needs more than a gilded cage to be happy.

The pixies have just begun zooming across the streets, lighting the glass lamps around the city to banish the encroaching darkness. Rose watches them with wide-eyed wonder, frozen in place in the middle of the road. She’s oblivious to the way that the other fae grumble as they’re forced to swerve around her. As she should be.

Those bastards don’t get to rob her of her smiles with their aggravated glares. I growl under my breath at them, only to wince as my magic escapes and amplifies the sound. In a second, the grumble switches from barely audible to almost deafening, and fae around us shift back, alarmed. I wrench my power back under control, but the damage is done. Where we were once pressed against other fae, now they’re giving us a wide berth. The breathing space is nice, but it distracts Rose from the pixies above.

My ears flatten against my skull, and my cheeks turn pink. Great. I didn’t want her to stop.

Rose is stiff as she turns back to me, her eyes sad.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “Is this too much? I know it’s busy, but we can find somewhere quiet.”

I shake my head, silently berating myself for interrupting her. “I’m fine. Carry on.” When she looks hesitant, I continue. “Are you hungry? You should find somewhere we can eat.”

She seems happy to be given the task, and within seconds, we’re off again, strolling down busy streets and up staircases until we reach a small crescent of bars and taverns in the upper branches of the market district. Rose debates between all of them, peering curiously through doors before dismissing them on some unknown criteria. Several of them I know from gossip are supposed to be excellent establishments, but Rose doesn’t spare them a second glance.

What is she looking for?

The tavern she pulls us into is small, well-lit, and flooded with music. In the far corner, three musicians are strumming at lutes, and my lips twitch when I realise one of the instruments isn’t even in tune.

Really? She picked here, of all places? There are nicer taverns. Ones better suited for a Nicnevin. Why this one?

Rose—who’s been the driving force behind our exploration for the entire afternoon—seems fused to the doorway, as if she’s uncertain what to do now that she’s here. Tugging her towards a table is easy. She slips into the seat without encouragement, and I catch the eye of the bar wench—a heavyset gnome with haphazard curly hair.

She nods, stomping towards us.

“What’s in the kitchen?” I ask as she tucks my money into her apron.

“Turkey, ham, and cranberry pie,” she replies, offhandedly, already surveying the room.

“Two portions,” I say, dropping more money into her small hand.

She nods, tramping away.

Rose doesn’t speak, though I wish she would. For most of our trip, her face has been consumed with curiosity and delight. Now, she’s pensive as she stares at the lute playing fauns in the corner.

She shouldn’t be paying them any attention. They’re amateurish at best and every missed note and out of tune chord is grating on me. Okay, so maybe they’re notthatbad. An average listener probably wouldn’t notice, but Iwrotethat ballad and they’re butchering it right in front of me. Fauns should stick to pipes—they have a natural talent for all things woodwind.

For the second time in under an hour, my power leaks out. This time, instead of amplifying the awful playing, it silences it completely. Relief hits me for a second before I realise what I’ve done.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Rose was enjoying that. Now she’s watching with confusion as the lute playing fauns strum soundlessly at their instruments for a few seconds. One by one, they stop playing, staring at the instruments in confusion. Then they glare at the crowd, likely searching for whoever is behind this.

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