A Spell for Heartsickness (The Rune Tithe #1)

CHAPTER 8

C oill Darragh metamorphosed with the arrival of Saor ó Eagla and Linden both. The streets thronged with tourists. Bonfires burned, carrying woodsy smells through thoroughfares. Strings of bunting, wreaths of pinecones, and autumnal leaves decorated all the eaves and doors. It was cozy and convivial, unlike the drunks puking in the streets of Wishbrooke, and Briar pondered how parties in Pentawynn might compare.

Over the past week, Briar had scrounged for tithes to make three garments float, as though on invisible models, in the window display. They spun in slow circles and won him a few potential customers, but the sheer emptiness of his shop was daunting. He really needed a sale, but nothing had moved since the engagement ring. It didn’t discourage him, his mood buoyed by the promise of celebration. The chance to meet Linden gave the night of Saor ó Eagla even more promise than most.

And if Briar’s mind strayed to the thought of bumping into Rowan, it was not an unpleasant thought.

Since Briar still hadn’t discovered a means to let Gretchen roam freely, his work ethic kept her cooped up. At his promise that on the night of Saor ó Eagla, she could roam all she liked, she chucked a spatula at his head.

“That’s the anniversary of my death, you pillock!”

Briar ducked, the spatula flying just shy of a potion vial on his desk. “I didn’t know that!”

“Well, you never asked!”

“I’m sorry, but it seemed a bit personal, and anyway, a walk about could be good. Think of it like a birthday present. A deathday present.”

She tried to hurl a whisk at him that time but had exhausted her ability to affect the real world, so she stormed through the wall into the stairwell to sulk.

Briar liked Gretchen. Though testy, she helped him with potions and teased him affectionately, too.

She also chafed in a way he found familiar.

Given it was Linden’s grand opening and the night of the festival, partaking in the festivities and schmoozing seemed a better use of Briar’s time, so he closed early. He wore Gretchen’s curtain, as promised, but he’d turned the cape into a cravat. It was a struggle to open his shop door into the crowd, with people holding pints, cameras, and their phones blocking the way.

The air smelled of smoke and cider. A dais was erected in front of Linden’s shop, swathed in silk bunting. The drunken revelers mixed uneasily with the professional photographers and journalists. A few witches hovered on brooms above the crowd to get a better view.

The clock struck six, and a plume of red smoke erupted on the dais. Linden emerged from it, Atticus draped around his shoulders. He looked splendid with his hair charmed to twinkle with stars. People with color-changing sparklers waved them vigorously, cheering. A red ribbon tied itself across Linden’s door, ready for cutting.

“It’s time,” Linden said, “to announce my new work here in Coill Darragh! For much of my life, I devoted myself to creating clothes I hoped would bring harmony and happiness to the lives of everyone who wore them. I put love into every stitch. I’m blessed to say I have no regrets.

“However, the time has come to revisit a chapter from my youth. Many have asked whether I will return to the noble path set out by my family. For some time, I didn’t know the answer. The loss of my gifts left me uncertain of my future in the art of healing.”

Some murmurs of sympathy went through the crowd.

All were aware that Linden had big boots to fill, as his parents ran one of the most successful potion chains in the world. That Linden had departed from it was common knowledge, even controversial. He’d chosen something considered frivolous—fashion—over something noble and altruistic—healing. That he’d been prodigally talented in both only rein-forced the public opinion that he was wasting his powers.

Those expectations must have weighed heavily on him. They were the same age, Briar reflected. Linden had only been a boy when he came into his fame.

Vatii, unaffected, said, “What tripe.”

“Hush.”

Linden’s voice rose. “Well, I’ve thought long enough to give you my answer.”

He directed everyone’s attention to banners waving on the dais. The logo upon them changed, transforming into a caduceus staff. The head of the snake was still his customary cat’s face with a witch’s hat. Fireworks popped across the long banner until it dropped, revealing the freshly painted sign over his store.

Fairchild Enchanted Elixirs and Remedies

The crowd frothed with the flash of photography and the snappy dialogue of reporters conveying the news to their camera crew. Linden descended the dais, his hair and robes floating in defiance of gravity. He conjured a pair of scissors, then cut the ribbon. The door swept open on its own.

Standing in the aperture, light forming a halo around him, he told the waiting crowd, “Though inspired by the work of my family, this store is still my own. Many of the enchanted objects here incorporate magic from my family’s potion recipes, or new ones I made myself. You might wonder why I’ve come to Coill Darragh, and you’ll find your answer in the forest surrounding it. As it is one of the last sources of wild magic, I wish to study it and see if any secrets of healing can be found within. Beyond that, I wish to serve everyone here, whatever their needs may be. Any problems you have, bring them to me. I’d like everyone to feel comfortable within these walls.”

With that, he declared Fairchild Enchanted Elixirs and Remedies open.

The crowd surged forward, Briar pulled toward the entrance with them. By some miracle or magic, an orderly queue formed, weaving down the street. The banners, which once obscured the window display, curled up like scrolls, revealing an exquisite array of items on velvet pillows and tiered platters: from tiny jewels to candles to statuettes of animals in delicate china. Handwritten cards next to each described the effects they’d have on a room or a wearer.

Briar had a goal to introduce himself to Linden, but the simplest excuse to speak would be to buy something. The question was whether he could afford anything; even the smallest trinkets in the window display were pricey.

They were only a taste of the flavors within. A display of clothing—winter robes in Linden’s characteristically neutral palettes and block patterns—turned on a pedestal. Longing and disconcertion flooded Briar’s heart. He would give anything to own a garment made by Linden’s hand, but the competition would set him back in his own pursuits.

Knowing he wouldn’t like what he found, he pressed between a few other customers to finger the tag hanging from the sleeve of a coat. It proclaimed to grant the wearer a year of luck in affairs of the heart. If you are looking for your beloved, your soulmate, wear this, and the search will not last long.

“Not like you need that ,” Vatii said. “Since you and Linden are destined to be.”

Briar’s insides twisted. It would cost him a year’s supply of medicine for this coat alone.

Setting his sights on something smaller, he perused the shelves of trinkets. Enamel pins, hair ornaments, tea lights. Even these were expensive, but he could always use more candles. He selected two. One would grant him sweet dreams if burned an hour before sleep, the second banished fatigue if he needed to pull another late night.

He followed the gold arrows on the floor to queue.

“Are you nervous?” Vatii asked.

“Excited.”

But the closer he got to the register, the less that was true. Linden manned it himself, his smile blinding. Briar’s heart beat a staccato rhythm against his sternum. He had to say something to leave an impression, but nothing adequately expressed the depth of Linden’s influence. You made my life bearable when I lost everything. He couldn’t very well say that.

Then it was his turn.

Stepping through a portal and into Linden’s presence had the same surreal effect of crossing through worlds. His aura didn’t carry through the camera, and on the day of the Miracle Tour years ago, he’d been protected by wards blocking Briar’s abilities. Usually, Briar noticed a person’s aura before anything else. But instead of the wash of sensation he was so used to, Briar felt… nothing. Just a careful blankness. Like Linden’s aura existed beyond tinted glass. He must have utilized some kind of charm still, to keep prying eyes away.

A mask.

Maybe he really is my destiny , Briar thought. He’d joked but never really believed.

“Find everything all right?” Linden said.

Briar came back to himself. “Yes! Actually, I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Briar Wyngrave. I’m the other Reded witch, your neighbor. Just next door.”

He shook Linden’s smooth hand. Touch didn’t bring his aura into sharp relief either. On the counter, Atticus licked a paw. Vatii clattered over to introduce herself, chattering in the strange language of familiars. The cat turned its head, ignoring Vatii. She looked tempted to pull Atticus’s tail but returned to Briar’s shoulder with an insulted squawk.

“Lovely to make your acquaintance,” Linden said. “That’s twelve pounds, by the way.”

Between them, charmed tissue paper wrapped Briar’s tea lights. Briar counted out coins. “Perhaps we could meet for coffee sometime? There aren’t many witches in town. We could get to know one another.”

He was pushing the envelope—Linden’s shop looked straight out of a magazine, and Briar’s still looked like it was available for rent. They had disparate reputations, but fortune favored the bold, and Briar was brazen.

“Oh,” Linden said. “Perhaps. I’m very sorry, it’s just that there’s a queue—”

“Of course. I won’t hold you up any longer.” Briar ignored the scornful look of the woman behind him with an armful of talismans. “Congratulations on your grand opening.”

“Thank you.”

Linden looked to the disgruntled woman. Briar’s time was up. He took his bag and wandered outside, where the queue still snaked down the lane.

“What a stuck-up prick,” Vatii exploded. “I hate cats. That man better not be your destiny.”

“He is,” Briar said. “I’m sure of it.” He replayed the memory with a sense of both curiosity and wonder. “He’s nothing like what I expected.”

“And that makes you sure of it, why?”

“Niamh said the man who’d lead me to my destiny wore a mask to protect his heart, which made it stony. I think it’s a veneer. Would you be any different if everyone knew your name and wanted something from you? Maybe once we get to know him, he’ll warm up.”

“So what’s the plan now?” Vatii grumbled.

Briar grinned. “I think we deserve a drink.”

The Swan and Cygnet overflowed with people clutching pitchers, light glinting off their wardstone bracelets. Briar waded toward the bar. Vatii perched on his head, annoyed at the other patrons for bumping into her long tail.

Maebh cleaned a glass and ignored the pointed looks of rowdy tourists. They were tended to, instead, by her frazzled barmaid. Seated on a stool in front of Maebh was Rowan, his hands dwarfing a pint of stout. The two of them spoke low, with heads bowed, Rowan’s strong profile wearing a grim scowl. As usual, strangers avoided him, so it was easy for Briar to sit next to him, bumping shoulders.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Briar.” His name rolled over Rowan’s tongue, the r ’s gone both soft and solid, like melting butter.

“Nice to see you again, Maebh,” Briar said politely. Vatii hopped onto the bar top, probably not helping him into Maebh’s good graces as she pecked at biscuit crumbs.

“What can I get you?” Maebh asked.

Had he imagined that her tone was warmer? “Do you have another recommendation?” He nudged Rowan. “Something traditional for Saor ó—” Briar struggled with the pronunciation. His accent didn’t wrap around the vowels the same way.

Rowan raised his pint. “Stout’s traditional.”

“I’ll have that, then.”

Maebh hit Rowan’s arm with her dish towel. “Give him a try of yours first, like.”

She was definitely warmer than Briar remembered. She also didn’t shy away from Rowan like everyone else. Obliging, Rowan passed the pint, filled with liquid so inky dark it could have been bottomless. Briar took an experimental sip. Creamy froth left a moustache on his upper lip, which he licked off. It was a bitter and deep-flavored beer, more meal than drink.

“Like it?” said Maebh.

“It’s—good!”

Maebh said, “What are you really after?”

“Mulled wine?”

“I’ll tell Aisling. Can you get that, Aisling?”

From the other side of the bar, Aisling called back, “Now in a minute.”

“Never mind, I’ll get it myself.”

“You missed some—” Rowan’s big hand was suddenly in Briar’s periphery. After startling a second, he froze, and Rowan wiped a bit of froth from his upper lip with the pad of a thumb.

It set Briar’s heart skipping. The cacophony of the bar fell away for just a moment. Rowan’s by-now-familiar aura rubbed against him like hands bracketing his waist.

Maebh returned just as Rowan’s hand dropped back to his pint.

Briar chastised himself internally for leaning into the touch, for the thoughts that crooned in his mind about what those big hands would feel like cradling the back of his head or hitched up under clothes. Maebh was right there, giving Briar a look of calculated scrutiny.

It was difficult to tell if the gesture had been an idle, platonic thing.

It hadn’t felt like it, though.

Maebh slid him the mulled wine. He reached for his coin purse, but she held up a hand. “Leave it. You helped my Sorcha. Seems you’re friendly with my Rowan, too. So that drink’s on the house.”

Briar felt both grateful and stupid. Looking at Maebh closer, the resemblance should have been obvious. She was their mother.

“Is everyone here related?” he blurted.

Maebh’s barking laughter eased his fear of causing further offense. “Ours is a large family, but you’ve met the best of them.”

Rowan grunted. “Mam.”

“Right, I’ll leave you before Aisling has a canary, but you best enjoy yourselves this evening, all right?”

She ambled away. Briar took a sip of his mulled wine, the tart, fruity brew and warm spices bringing a flush to his cheeks. Rowan considered him, quiet as usual. It was difficult to pin him down. He wasn’t quite brooding, just less warm, and a cord of discontent furrowed his brow.

“I thought you’d be enjoying the festivities,” Briar said.

“Hmm.” Rowan tilted his head from side to side.

“Sorry if I interrupted a serious conversation with your—mam?”

“No, nothing like that.” At Briar’s inquisitive look, he took an evasive sip of stout. “Have you been enjoying your night?”

Briar leaned in close. He could see the individual white hairs of Rowan’s beard where his scar branched along his jaw, up his cheek. “I think I’d enjoy it more with a guide.”

Rowan took that in, then raised his pint to tap against Briar’s. “Best finish our drinks, then.”

A voice rose above the crowd, a young man climbing atop the other end of the bar. He called for everyone’s attention with a braying laugh, ignoring Maebh’s venomous look for tramping his boots on her bar top. Briar recognized him. The harried man who’d bought the engagement ring a while back. Enough patrons noticed him to fall quiet. He announced he had something very important to tell everyone before they went back to their merriment, then turned to Aisling, the barmaid. He pulled a velvet box from his pocket, Briar’s magical signature hovering around it.

The young man jumped off the bar and got down on one knee, presenting Aisling with the ring. She looked ecstatic, pink cheeks turning red. Tear-fully, she accepted, and her new fiancé rose to place the ring on her finger.

A tickle of joy and heartache went through Briar. He’d sold those rings, played a part in this joining of hearts, and left a little mark on the community. But he also ached for the wedding he’d probably never have.

Briar took the last sip of his wine and nudged Rowan, who’d been watching him and not the engagement. “Ready to go?”

They emerged into the crisp autumn air, breath frosting in swirling clouds. Briar interlocked his arm in Rowan’s. The alderman looked briefly shocked but accepted the contact.

Vatii clicked her beak in Briar’s ear. “I thought Linden was your destiny, huh? What happened to that?”

He couldn’t answer without Rowan overhearing, so he shrugged her off. Vatii, who’d prefer he take up nunnery, huffed crossly. He didn’t know for certain who the prophecy referred to. No harm in a little flirting, either way.

In the streets, a group of friends all crowned each other with laurels of autumn leaves. A woman wove through the crowd with bundles of them over each arm. Rowan in tow, Briar asked her for two. She granted him one with leaves arranged in fiery colors and another in different shades of orange and brown oak. Briar took the former and held it aloft for Rowan.

“I think this one will suit you.”

Rowan hesitated, then bent his head. Briar rose on tiptoes to place the laurel, an undisguised excuse to casually touch.

“What are they for?” Briar arranged his own on his head. “Seems everyone’s wearing one.”

“They’re meant to grant protection from the woods.”

Briar raised his eyebrows. “I guess my sorry arse needs that more than most. How do I look?”

Rowan haltingly straightened Briar’s crown, then quickly withdrew his hand, chest inflating. “Good. You look good.”

Briar linked arms with him again, and they wound through the crowd, chatting as they went. There was a market propped up along the high street, orange lanterns hanging from the beams to make each stall an amber-lit hideout.

“I never properly thanked you for saving me,” Briar said. “In the woods.”

“No need.”

“What were you doing in there, anyway?”

“Ehm…” Rowan rubbed the back of his neck, casting Briar a sidelong look. “It’s a long story.”

“We have all night. We should get some food. You can educate me about other traditions. Or anything else that’s common knowledge to locals but could actually kill me.”

Rowan pointed to a stall from which the smell of fresh-baked bread floated toward them. “Berry buns are traditional on Saor ó Eagla.”

The buns were round, fat rolls the size of Rowan’s fist, powdered liberally with icing sugar and stuffed with different flavors of jam. Rowan ordered an apricot one. Briar doubted he could finish a whole bun himself, they were so large.

“It’s traditional to share, too,” Rowan said sheepishly. “If you’d like to—”

“Love to.”

They walked to a tarped-over area with heat lamps and picnic benches. The furniture looked crafted for children with Rowan sitting in it. Briar sat next to him, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Rowan tore the bun in half and gave Briar the piece with more jam.

The first bite was heaven, the buttery dough melting and soft, the jam sweet and tart.

“Everything here tastes so good,” Briar groaned. The coffee chains of the big cities had nothing on Coill Darragh’s mom-and-pop shops. At Rowan’s smirk, he added, “Don’t get smug. You didn’t tell me how you happened to find me in the big magic, evil woods.”

“You didn’t tell me why you were there either.”

“You first.” He took a bite of his bun. Vatii fluttered onto the table, looming pointedly. Rowan, to her flapping surprise, tore off a chunk of his own for her, which she gobbled down. She took up an expectant pose in front of him.

Rowan said, “I don’t really know the answer. I have blackouts. That day in the woods was one of them.”

“What, you have no memory of it?”

Rowan’s eyebrows drew together. “Woke up when I found you. Carried you out. I don’t know how I got to you.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Mm. More and more.”

It sounded terrifying. Briar took another bite of his bun. “Rowan, why does everyone avoid the forest? Why are we wearing crowns to protect us from it? Seriously, it’s starting to freak me out.” His curse felt like a stake through his ribs. He didn’t understand why the forest first cursed his mother, but he’d come to believe it had, and he wanted answers.

“We’re a suspicious lot, Coill Darraghns. Plenty of stories about bad things befalling those who mess about with it. Most will say they don’t believe it. Just tall tales. Still, won’t catch any Coill Darraghn going in of their own accord.”

“But you went in.”

“Not of my own accord.”

Briar shivered. Thinking he was cold, Rowan leaned closer. A subtle gesture, but one Briar basked in, sidling up to Rowan’s ribs. Rowan was a small sun next to him, warmth seeping through Briar’s hip and arm where they touched.

He considered telling Rowan about the tree. About the mark on his arm. About the curse cast by the forest they all feared. He didn’t, though. He swallowed his last bite of apricot bun and the story with it. He felt stupid for ignoring Gretchen’s warning, but he didn’t know how else to get ingredients for spells. Besides, he was marked for death already.

“It’s your turn to tell me why you went in,” Rowan said.

“I needed some lichen for an elixir.”

To Rowan’s credit, he didn’t ask why Briar hadn’t just bought some. “Next time, come to me.”

“You’re the alderman, my fairy-tale rescuer saving me from murderous trees, and now you’re a herbalist too?”

“No, but I have a garden.”

Hope struck like flint in Briar’s chest, but there was something dark and fearful with it. Rowan’s idle generosity was one thing, but Briar couldn’t allow himself to depend upon it. In the end, this was his quest, his fate to meet alone.

“You and Sorcha have already helped me.”

Rowan shrugged. He finished his food, and with no napkins available, licked the jam from his fingers, behaving as though his kindness was the norm and naught else. Some of Briar’s gratitude swelled and stuck in his throat. The words “thank you” seemed paltry.

Rowan gave him a quizzical look, and Briar realized he must be blushing. He was spared having to explain by a child’s shriek and the sudden assault of tiny arms around his waist.

“Ciara, what have I told you about jumping on people—”

Ciara stepped back, holding up the ends of her cloak and twirling. Behind her stood a man who could only be her father. Ciara shared his red hair and freckled complexion.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt. She saw you and just—”

“It’s no trouble,” Briar assured him and got up to introduce himself. “I’m Briar.”

“Connor.”

Ciara blew past the introductions. “Look, we match!” She spun again to demonstrate. She pulled up her star-speckled hood and grabbed Briar’s hand. “Dance with me.”

“Ciara, you can’t interrupt their evening.”

“I’d be happy to dance with you,” Briar said. Quieter, he told Connor, “It’s really no trouble. Rowan and I don’t mind, right?”

Rowan shook his head. Vatii, jostled by the dancers, took up a perch on Rowan’s shoulder. Rowan only looked a little surprised, but Briar was gobsmacked.

Vatii never liked touching anyone except Briar.

The jaunty music picked up. Ciara took Briar’s hands and skipped around in a circle. She twirled and bossed him around, teaching him the “right way” to dance. In a game that made Ciara shriek with laughter, Briar would deliberately perform the steps wrong and ask her, “Like that?” It was an effective way to banish the cold, but it was not just the dancing that lit a fire in Briar’s breast. Rowan watched them. Normally, his expression fell somewhere between solemn and contented. Now, a look of genuine affection crossed his face.

“Another!” Ciara cried as the fiddler struck up a new chord, but Connor intervened.

“It’s nearly your bedtime. Leave go of Briar’s cloak,” Connor said while pulling her away.

“One more song?”

“Your mam will have my hide.”

“Where is Sorcha, anyway?” Briar wondered aloud.

He immediately regretted the question. An unspoken conversation transpired in the shuttered look on Rowan’s face and the one Connor cast his way. Ciara alone remained immune, jumping up and down to the new song.

“Sorcha’s taking the night off,” Connor said.

Briar knew a bruise when he saw one, particularly when he’d just prodded it. “Give her my love, then.”

“I will. Come, say good night, Ciara.”

She wrapped one of Briar’s legs in a hug, then Rowan’s. Connor whisked her away into the crowd, leaving Briar to wonder why a night of good food, music, and dancing was the cause for soreness. He didn’t feel comfortable asking. Rowan had divulged enough about his blackouts; it seemed invasive to push for more, especially since it involved his family.

The dancers began a different dance, spreading out in a large circle.

Rowan started to guide them away, but Briar caught his hand. “It’s your turn now.”

Disconcerted, Rowan’s gaze flicked to the people around them. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Everyone but me seems to know all the steps. Teach me.”

The dance involved everyone standing in a circle, counting steps into the center, then out again. Spinning. Breaking into pairs and turning, hand in hand. It was a fun, uncomplicated dance, mostly spent skipping and laughing as you bumped into people. Rowan looked uncomfortable when surrounded by others, not least of all because they were unnerved by his presence, shying away from him as much as the dance would allow.

Briar resented them for it, could see how the casual cruelty wounded Rowan. But then they were linked arm in arm, and the smile Rowan gave him made the anger melt away.

It was ridiculous that anyone should fear him.

The song ended. They left the dancers, though Briar didn’t unlink their arms, huddling closer for warmth as they walked. The stares of the townsfolk followed. Barring his own family, nobody seemed to know how to interact with Rowan, and Briar’s disregard for this particular tradition earned them a lot of attention.

They shared another drink. Briar wished he had opted for something hot instead of a cider, his fingers going numb around the cold cup. They walked the winding streets, making up the path as they went. Though he didn’t want to bring up another potentially sore subject, his curiosity couldn’t be dissuaded any longer.

“There’s something I don’t understand, Rowan. You’re the alderman. You’ve been kind to me since I arrived. You and your family. Why does everyone here…” He didn’t know how to phrase it without coming across as insulting.

“Avoid me?” Rowan supplied.

Briar let out a breath. “Yeah.”

Rowan fell quiet. His brow scrunched. He took a drink from his cup in a measured sip. Briar felt a little guilty, but Rowan’s reaction seemed muted. If the way people treated him hurt, it was a hurt he’d grown used to.

“I’ve no idea, only clues,” said Rowan. “The more interesting question is: Why do they avoid me but you don’t?”

Briar replied earnestly. “Because you’re lovely.”

Rowan ducked his head, looking away so Briar couldn’t see his expression. Briar wished to turn him with a hand on his jaw, feel the prickle of beard against his fingertips. Had no one ever told him so? How long had Rowan spent isolated from the people of his home?

“You said you have clues?”

“Mm. It started after I got this.” Rowan touched the scar on his cheek. Briar traced its path with his eyes. A branching thing, it traveled from his temple to his jaw, then disappeared into his cloak. Briar wondered how much farther it went.

“How did you get it?”

“A long story.” He winced. “Another time, maybe.”

Briar finished his drink and tossed the plastic cup into a bin they passed. Rubbing his hands together did little to bring feeling back to his numbing fingers.

Gruffly, Rowan said, “C’mere to me.” He stopped them at the darkened window of a store and set his drink on the sill. Cupping Briar’s hands between his, he raised them to his lips and breathed warm air over them. A different sort of shiver raised the hair on Briar’s arms and set his blood to boiling. Rowan rubbed feeling back into his fingers. He avoided eye contact, keeping his gaze low. Briar had only two drinks down and knew the fuzzy feeling steeping in him had less to do with alcohol than the way Rowan’s aura wound around him. Like the sensuous curve of a body warm against his back, it made his toes curl in his boots.

This close, though, an undercurrent of something else polluted his aura. Just a creeping sense of unease and a smell like wilted plants. It got stronger when Briar leaned closer to Rowan’s left side. It gave him an idea.

“I can read auras, you know.”

Rowan’s hands stilled but didn’t drop Briar’s.

“It’s not a common skill, but I’ve had it as long as I can remember. It’s the first thing I notice when I meet someone. If someone has an aura that tastes or feels bad, it’s hard to be around them.” As Briar spoke, Rowan’s thumbs rubbed warm lines into his palms. “I’ve met people whose auras taste and feel like I just bit my tongue. Someone whose aura smelled like a field of wildflowers. It’s hard not to make an immediate judgment. Yours…”

Rowan waited. Briar didn’t know how to say it. Briar, who could scream all the pet names Celyn used to call him in a crowd of their peers, who was usually immune to embarrassment, felt shy to describe this part of himself. It wasn’t something he often shared.

“Mine?” Rowan asked.

“Yours is warm. The first sensation I got was the taste of hot stew on a cold, rainy day. It’s…” He was toeing a line. Vatii’s reproach echoed in his mind. I thought Linden was your destiny. This seemed misleadingly romantic. Too intimate for the idle flirting Briar had intended this night to be. “It’s wonderful. But you have more than one aura. There’s your aura. And there’s your scar. It’s different. Most people don’t get a sense for auras the way I do, but everyone has some intuition when it comes to magic. Especially when it comes to something dangerous. And I think… I don’t know, but maybe the energy of your scar makes them uneasy.”

Rowan absorbed that, his thumbs still tracing lazy patterns in Briar’s hands. Much as Briar enjoyed the touch, he pulled his hands free. He’d never talked about his abilities to anyone in this depth, and now that he had, he felt vulnerable.

“It makes sense,” Briar finished. “Since you said they only reacted like that after you got it.”

Rowan retrieved his drink from the windowsill and finished it. “Could be. Thank you, Briar.”

“For what?”

“For telling me.” He searched Briar’s face. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, then shut it again.

Whatever it was, he instead opted to walk Briar home. Though he offered Briar his arm, he was even quieter than usual. So much so that Briar wondered if he’d made a mistake in telling him. By the time they reached his doorstep, Briar’s stomach had tied itself in knots.

He’d spent a good portion of the evening in Rowan’s company. Admiring the strong planes of his face, his dark eyes. The way his bicep felt as they strolled arm in arm. How his rich baritone filled Briar’s chest. He’d thought idly about how the night would end, and in his imaginings, it had always ended one way. He’d skirted over the thought, never looking at it directly.

Now they stood under his eave, he confronted the fact that he hoped Rowan would kiss him goodnight.

It was a treacherous thought. Perhaps Vatii was right. He shouldn’t risk even a casual affair with destiny on his doorstep. Rowan stood close enough that Briar could smell bonfire and ash on his clothes. Close enough to hear the slight shiver in his breath. It would take only a half step, tilting his head, Rowan leaning down—

Rowan took a small step toward him. Briar swayed on the balls of his feet, looking up and into Rowan’s face. The breath that had warmed Briar’s hands became shallow, puffing in clouds on the cold air between them. Rowan’s hand rose, knuckles just brushing Briar’s chin, a tremor in that barest touch. The way Rowan looked at him, dark-eyed and wanting, made Briar’s heart beat mightily, made him rise on tiptoe.

But Rowan didn’t lean in the rest of the way. His voice tripped over his words as he said too quickly, “Have a good night, Briar.”

He left.