“Will you stay with her?” he asked Brynn, nodding toward Ceridwen’s sleeping form. “I don’t want her to wake up alone.”
Brynn placed her palm across Ceridwen’s forehead, smoothing back her hair. “Of course, my lord.”
He turned to go when he caught sight of a leather-bound journal on Ceridwen’s desk. Leaning over, he peered at the entry. In her perfect, elegant handwriting, he read the words:
Witch thread.Shatter the realms.
Tiernan hadno idea what it meant but made a mental note to ask. He stole one more glance at Ceridwen, and a tremor of unease raced down his spine.
He left her then, walking through the open hallways of the palace. Warm air caressed his skin, but nothing could erase the fact that he was losing control. Of everything. Faeven was dying, Parisa was growing stronger, and Maeve was still trapped in the Ether. Ceridwen had always been the one to calm the storm, to soothe the quelling turmoil. Now, however, not even she would be enough to stop it. Ceridwen’s visions were becoming more erratic and unpredictable. If Maeve was in Niahvess where she belonged, she could create a barrier to shield Ceridwen from the intrusive visions, something similar to her adorable shimmery bubble. He thought he needed his twin to help save Maeve, but it appeared Ceridwen would need Maeve to help safeguard her mind.
Doubt ignited inside of Tiernan, burning like a freshly kindled blaze.
He, alone, would not be enough.
For either of them.
* * *
Maeve flippedthrough the pages of the book she’d chosen from the library in the Ether. It was some story about a looking glass and a world full of strange wonders. But the words continued to blur before her and she found herself reading the same paragraph over and over, unable to concentrate.
Another day had passed, and she was no closer to going home. The distinctive chill of autumn had arrived in the Ether and with it came the promise of more rainy, gray days and cold, blustery nights. Perfect for cozying up with a story to read.
“Tea?”
She looked up to see Rowan stirring a porcelain cup inlaid with silver leaves. He held it out to her.
“No, thank you.” She waved it away. “I don’t drink tea.”
“Really?” He arched a brow, flicked his wrist, and a cup of coffee appeared instead. He added two lumps of sugar, and she accepted the steaming cup of deliciousness. “Why not?”
Maeve stared down at the dark liquid and a slight pressure built in her head, causing her shoulders to tense. She shifted, shaking off the strange sensation. “I just don’t.”
He shrugged, sipping his tea. “So, when are you planning on going to Diamarvh?”
Her gaze snapped to him and there was no mistaking the questions in his lavender eyes. “I’m not.”
“Don’t lie to me, Princess.” He seated himself in the chair next to hers and stretched out his legs, crossing one ankle over the other. “I know damn good and well that’s exactly what you’re trying to do.”
“What if I am?” she countered.
Rowan set down his cup on the table and stared at her until she fought the urge to squirm beneath the intensity of his gaze. “Then my question would be why.”
Maeve gauged him. “Because I need their help.”
“And if they don’t agree?”
She closed her book. She’d read it another day. “I don’t plan on giving them much of a choice.”
He kept his expression neutral, and a beat of tense silence passed between them. “It’s a bad idea, Princess.”
“If I can convince the Wild Hunt to fight alongside us, then we may actually have a chance to defeat her.” She angled herself in her chair, facing him fully. “Parisa is bringing war to the Four Courts. And I refuse to let Faeven fall.”
Rowan adjusted the cuffs of his sweater and tendrils of shadows crept out from beneath the deep gray fabric. “You do realize you’re not the only one who wishes to see her demise, don’t you?”
Crossing her arms, she huffed out an annoyed breath. “Says the fae whose loyalty is to the Spring Court. Always.”
It was a low blow. His gaze darkened and his jaw clenched, etching lines of anger into the sharp planes of his face.