Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(62)

It wasn’t just a carving; it was a door.

He wrapped his arm around her again, and she kept one arm looped around his neck. She wanted to be upright for this hidden secret. She wanted to remember.

Darkness lay within the room, not with tendrils of fear but a soft quiet that eased the soul. The slight burble of water reached her ears trickling from some unknown stream. Heat brushed against her skin in an almost physical touch.

Sorcha released a slow breath. “I can’t see anything.”

“I’m going to put you down,” Stone said at the same time. She heard the creaking of crystals. “Patience, little human.”

He set her down on a smooth bench. Sorcha couldn’t see the color, but she could feel the texture as soft as velvet. She ran her palms over the edges, the bumps of carvings, dipping into hollows and valleys.

Impulsively, she toed off her sodden shoes. Soft moss cushioned the arches of her feet as she placed them back onto the floor. It was not wet with rain as she’d expected.

Sorcha tilted her head, listening for the pattering sound. It was there, but far away, as if she was in the very belly of the castle. She couldn’t believe they were in a dungeon. No dungeon had a door so fine nor moss so soft.

Where were they?

Yellow light flashed, blurring her vision in bright sparks of color. The beautiful room before her couldn’t be in the castle! Lush moss carpeted the circular room and ivy covered the walls, making it seem more forest than room. A canopy of blushing roses hung in tendrils over a bed piled high with furs. In the center, a carved woman stretched towards the ceiling atop a still pool studded with white flowers. Her wings spread wide for flight and were so detailed that Sorcha could see the veins stretched across them.

“This place is too fine for me,” she said.

“There’s no such place.”

Her jaw dropped. What did he mean by that? He couldn’t be saying she was worthy of such a room? This was fit for royalty or a high-born Fae gifted in the arts.

Sorcha glanced down at her calloused palms and shorn fingernails feeling well and truly out of place.

“I can’t—” he paused and glanced at her then down at his chest. “I have to ready myself for these pests. I trust you can warm yourself?”

“Is there a place for a fire?”

He gestured towards one of the ivy-covered walls. “Everything you need should be in the room beyond.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. He’d saved her, brought her to this haven and then…was leaving? Who did that? “It’s very difficult to understand you.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment.”

“Neither do I.”

He stood surrounded by green and she couldn’t help but wonder who this man truly was. She caught glimpses of him, but never the full portrait.

He held his hands limp at his sides. Drops of water dripped from the strands of his hair, running down the shaven sides, and disappearing into the crevices filled with gems. He couldn’t meet her gaze, and as she watched, his hands clenched and relaxed.

“You aren’t comfortable with me looking at you,” she said. “That’s why you didn’t wish to speak when I saw you training.”

“I know what I look like.”

“What do you liken yourself to?”

“A monster. These,” he gestured towards the shoulder wound and his throat, “are unnatural. Marks of disfigurement that make me less Fae, less of a man.”

“I don’t see how something such as that could make you less of anything. They are startling at first, but the shock fades and I hardly even notice them now.”

“It is a beautiful lie.” He swept into a low bow. “I’d forgotten how refreshing it is to hear such words. Thank you for not telling me the truth.”

“What?”

He swept out of the room so quickly she felt only the breeze of his passing.

Sorcha was left with the trickling water, the soft movement of roses, and complete silence. She sat upon the bench and stared at the ceiling, at the surrounding splendor. She was utterly alone for the first time since arriving.

Drawing her knees to her chest, she blew out a quiet breath. When had she last been alone? Surely it must have happened, but she couldn’t think of a time. Her sisters had always been home. She’d traveled to the MacNara’s with Agatha, had left with the dullahan, spent days upon the ship… Even in the ocean there had been merrow men and the Guardian.

She refused to let her thoughts turn dark. Heat should be her first task. She needed to get out of these wet clothes or she would catch cold.

The healing thoughts helped. She could diagnose herself like a patient, the segmented thoughts easy to follow.

Sorcha stumbled to her feet and brushed the ivy aside. She’d never seen a washroom such as this. More vines covered the walls, blue flowers unfurling their petals and filling the air with a heady floral scent. A large circle cut into the ground, warm water constantly pouring from a small hole in the wall.

“A hot spring,” she murmured.

There was a small chamber pot in the corner, along with a vanity table filled to the brim with hairbrushes and pastes she did not recognize.

None of this was for her, she reminded herself. She should warm her shivering body and then jump into bed. There was no need for pampering, nor did she have any idea what those faerie treats would do to her.