The bed is not mine. It is not my bed in Dál Macha, it is not Senach’s bed in the dragon knight barracks, it is not my bed at the little inn we’d been staying at in Cernna, and it is not my bed at Taran’s manor. The bed is as unfamiliar to me as the room when I open my eyes. A stabbing pain makes me close my eyes again. Someone sits against the pillows next to my head, their legs stretched out along the length of the bed. I turn my head, resting my brow against his hip. Senach’s hand comes down, resting against my head.

“He’s awake,” he calls out softly, stroking my cheek. “How do you feel, Bridei?”

“Like I’ve been riotously drunk,” I reply hoarsely. I cover my eyes with Senach’s hand, then openly them slowly. The light still makes my head ache and I close my eyes again, letting go of his hand. He rests his hand against the side of my head again, going back to stroking my cheek. I sigh. “What happened?”

“Magic,” he says flatly. “Fair Folk games and curses.”

“Curses?”

“What do you remember?”

“A bird on fire turned into a dragon,” I murmur. “You seemed worried.”

He’s silent for a moment. I wonder what look he’s giving me. “Gideon Brighthollow had a death curse ready,” he says. “To be released if his heart was pierced. You are unfortunately very well trained in defending yourself.”

I think that over for a minute. “Have I caused offense to someone else now?”

“No, but you did release a bit of chaos.”

“Did I? Tell me about it.”

He’s a terrible storyteller. Nevertheless, I smile as he tells me how the white fire threw itself into me, knocking me unconscious. Senach was on me immediately as the Fair Folk flew into chaos at seeing one of their own dead. They live for so long and die so rarely that to see one of their own defeated in a duel was something new for many of them. I laugh, rolling onto my side and throwing my arm over Senach’s legs as he tells me of that. He continues stroking my cheek as he speaks. Slowly, I open my eyes again. The light doesn’t hurt quite so much, and I stare up at Senach. The urge to touch his stubble-covered jaw is strong and I reach my hand up slowly to do just that. He looks down at me with a soft smile, letting my fingers brush against his cheek before he takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.

“You were worried,” I say softly.

“I was,” he agrees.

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know he had a death curse ready. Save your apologies for when you know what you’re walking into.” He smiles wryly. “Like dueling while drinking fey wine.”

“It tasted so good,” I reply, grinning. “What did Westhollow do after I killed Brighthollow?”

Senach gestures to the room. “He took us in until the issue from the duel can be resolved.”

I yawn. “I thought the issue was Brighthollow’s pride because I told him he’s not memorable.”

“You used more words than that,” he says dryly. “And the issue now is Brighthollow’s death curse and his magic.”

“Oh.”

“I suppose that’s a good reaction,” Onóra says.

I lift my head to blearily peer at her form in the doorway. She looks like a spirit, the edges of her running away. “Should I have a different reaction?” I ask.

She walks into the room slowly. “Well, we weren’t sure how you would handle what happened.”

I drop my head back down against Senach’s hip. “I’ve dueled and killed before,” I say. “No need to worry about that.”

She laughs lightly. “Oh, it’s not that. It’s the magic.”

I sigh, closing my eyes. Senach runs his fingers through my hair. Magic. It runs rampant through the Fair Folk, and through some human bloodlines. Ímar is said to have had magic, though it died with him. His children never showed any talent, and the only magic to be found on Dál Macha became the dragons. It was a fairy tale and a dream for young children to wish for. I wished for it more than once as a child, when I was nothing more than the forgettable second son and Talorc’s achievements weighed heavy.

Then I met Senach and all the silly dreams faded away.

I open my eyes and look up at him. He sits with his head against the headboard, eyes closed now. His fingers still move through my hair, over my cheek. I move along the bed to use his lap as a pillow, looking at Onóra again. She smiles at me as she walks around the room, examining the wardrobe and the mirror. She throws another log into the hearth, sitting on the foot of the bed as it catches fire.

“Senach said this is Westhollow’s home,” I say. Magic. I don’t want to think about it quite yet.

Onóra’s look tells me she might have some idea of my thoughts. “It is,” she says. “You would have had the vultures on you for a taste of Gideon’s magic without his protection.”

I wrinkle my nose up at her deft return. “Could you and Taran not protect us?”

“Protect you,” Senach corrects.

“Could you and Taran not protect me?” I amend, then frown. “Why do I need your protection? I have Senach.”

Onóra smiles. “Senach has never had to deal with power hungry Fair Folk.”

“They haven’t seemed any worse than everyone on Dál Macha,” Senach replies.

I roll over to grin up at him. “And you scared everyone there,” I say. “My perfect guard.” He smiles a little. I look at Onóra again. “If I have Senach still, why do I need Fair Folk protection?”

Onóra picks at her nails. “You two haven’t experienced the greed that comes out when one of our own dies and they release their magic,” she says. “Senach would be enough if they just wanted to tear you to pieces for revenge. They don’t.” She pauses. “Well, no, some would want to tear you apart. Not for revenge, though. They’ll go slowly and eat the pieces of you they carve off. There are recipes for every piece of the body that bring out all of the magic you’ve absorbed. Others will simply drain you of blood and drink that. Some more will keep you prisoner, all with different reasons for doing so. Depending on how strong the magic in you is, some might use you as a stud. Others will train you up, then kill you themself. A few will bind you to them.”

“You are so cheery,” I say.

She smiles. “You need to take this seriously.”

“I will.”

“Senach warned us you wouldn’t.”

I scowl at him, then try to sit up. When my arms give out, I wave off Senach’s help and choose to lay with my head in his lap again. He snorts, burying his fingers in my hair to rub my head. I groan happily, closing my eyes. “I can take this seriously,” I tell Onóra. “I just need to know what I’m supposed to be taking seriously.” She sighs. I hide a smile against Senach’s leg. “Why did Westhollow take us in?”

“He hasn’t said yet,” she answers. “Taran thinks he’ll tell you. I agree.”

“If he hasn’t already told you, why would he tell me?”

She’s silent for so long that I open my eyes. Only then, staring at me, does she say, “He has a long history with the Uí Ímair. Particularly with Galan Dragonheart.” She cocks her head to the side. “We gave him that name, did you know?”

I roll my eyes. “He didn’t record much of his time with the Fair Folk, but I know that.”

She smiles, with that cold edge the Fair Folk make all their own. “He could only record what we told him to.” Her smile fades as she sighs and looks out the window. “Play nice with the Fair Folk and you might get access to what we wrote of his time with us.”

I try to sit up again, and this time manage to keep myself propped up on my elbow. Senach places his hands against me, ready to steady me or help me further. “Did you know Galan?” I ask Onóra.

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Her smile this time is sweetly amused as she looks back at me. “How old do you think I am?”

Senach snorts. “Please, Onóra. We could die of old age before he accurately guesses.”

I look back at him, but I can’t tell how he means that—if he means to remind her of how difficult it is to guess the true age of anyone from the Fair Folk, or if he thinks I would just be that terrible at guessing. He smiles at me. I frown as I look away. Both, he likely means both.

But he makes Onóra laugh. “I am not much older than the two of you. Taran is Senach’s age.”

“How young for the Fair Folk,” I say. “No wonder you ran off with a bard.”

“He made me laugh,” she replies.

I accept Senach’s help this time as I try to sit up. The effort leaves my head pounding and I close my eyes again as the light becomes too much. I breathe uneasily as I lean against Senach’s side, grimacing and resting my head against his shoulder. He rests his head against mine, hand holding my leg tight enough that I know he’s still worried about me. As I steady my breathing, I cover his hand with mine. He doesn’t move at first, then covers my hand in turn with his other hand. I almost smile. A cool hand against my brow makes me open one eye instead.

Onóra stands next to the head of the bed now, frowning with concern. “I’ve never seen someone so ill after accepting another’s magic.”

I close my eye. “Is that a common occurrence? Accepting someone else’s magic?”

“It happens when one of us dies and our magic spreads to our family.”

“Well, I’m not family with any Fair Folk and I’m very human. No wonder I’m in pain.” I sigh. “Why did the magic come to me instead of his family?”

“His death curse,” she answers.

“Was that the pretty bird?”

There’s a moment silence before Senach says, “What came out of Brighthollow’s chest.”

“Ah,” Onóra replies. “Yes, Bridei. He tied the two together. Had any dreams of him yet?”

“Of Brighthollow?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“None.” She sighs. I slowly open my eyes despite the ringing pain throughout my head. “Why? Does that matter?”

“If you’d started having dreams of him, we could figure out how the magic might manifest in you,” she says.

“Can I not just give the magic to someone else?” I complain.

“You would have to die for that.”

I grimace. “Contrary to what some believe, I don’t think I actually want that.” Senach squeezes my hand. I squeeze back as I sigh. “Are we stuck here until the magic manifests?”

Onóra shakes her head. “When you’re well, we can return to my home. Taran and I are in charge of you.” She pats my leg with a soft smile. “I’ll let you rest, but you should be prepared for Lord Westhollow to speak with you soon.”

I nod, closing my eyes again as she leaves. Senach doesn’t move, keeping our hands where they are. I fall asleep like that, my head on his shoulder, but I wake against the pillows again. He sits in the window now, straddling it as the wind blows his dark hair around. I stare at how the moonlight touches him. A full moon, to have the feathers in his earrings shining as they do. His own hair does as well, another gift from Aedín’s bond. He looks descended from the Fair Folk himself like that.

He catches me staring. “Feel better?” he asks, swinging his leg back inside and sliding down from the window.

I’m able to sit up by myself when I try. “Yes.” I pull my legs up and rest my head against my knees. He smiles as he sits on the edge of the bed. I smile back as I scoot closer to him, resting my head against his shoulder. His back is warm, tunic thin. “Have you been in here with me all day?”

“I have not left your side since the mushroom ring,” he says. “Westhollow held me back at first. That specific ring has a reputation, apparently. The Fair Folk wanted to see if it was affected by Brighthollow’s death curse before entering it. When nothing happened to me, they decided the ring was unaffected.”

I lift my head. “Did you shove your way in before they could test it?” He shrugs. “Senach.”

“I don’t like seeing you injured,” he says. Unrepentant, the bastard.

“You could have been injured as well,” I point out.

He smirks, sitting back as I climb from the bed. I stretch, aware of his gaze. “There’s a bath waiting for you,” he says, gesturing to a folding screen.

The water is delightfully hot when I dip my fingers in it. I smile and undress, sighing as I step into the water. The door opens and shuts as Senach leaves. I dunk my head, pushing my hair back as I surface. The bath was placed in front of the hearth, and I stare at the crackling fire as I rest my head against the bath’s edge. Magic. It’s what kept the bathwater warm while I slept. It’s what fuels the bond between dragons and their riders. It’s what I have to deal with now, in some shape. I dunk my head again, then clean myself rather than think of it.

Senach has yet to return by the time I’ve finished bathing. I dress and step into the hallway, walking close to the wall as I search for him. Each door I pass is locked, and I hear no voices behind any of them, but the hallway leads me to a grand foyer and the sounds of merriment. I stand on the upper level, leaning against the bannister as I look below. The foyer tells me nothing of if Senach came this way. I descend the stairs slowly, keeping a hand against the cool wood of the bannister. A door behind the stairs stands open. I walk over slowly, but merriment comes from elsewhere. There’s only quiet in the room I step into.

Quiet, and Lord Julius Westhollow staring at the paintings that cover the walls.

He inclines his head in my direction. “It’s good you’re walking around.”

“You aren’t personally pleased to see me walking around?” I ask. The first painting next to the door is of the most recent war between Tsernia and Dál Macha. I recognize the scene, grimacing as I look away from it. The final fateful battle and Talorc stands ready, sword held high as he leads his men.

Westhollow only looks at me.

“You knew Galan personally,” I say. “The most beloved of the Uí Ímair princes.”

Westhollow walks past me to stand in front of a group portrait. I stare up at Galan’s face as I follow. Galan must be my age in the portrait. He would have sat for it not long after he bonded to Aedín and left Dál Macha on her back, for he’s surrounded by each of his companions. Caillín mac Óengusa, Galan’s closest friend from Dál Macha and the dragon knight who left home with him. Anna Efremovna, a huntress and warrior who saved Galan’s life the first time they met. Not yet his wife judging by the way she stands away from him. Vesper Rose, a human fosterling of the Fair Folk skilled in magic. And there, at Galan’s left and sprawling against Galan’s side—Julius Westhollow. He smiles at Galan, with Galan’s arm thrown over his shoulders.

Most beloved, indeed.

“The portrait was Galan’s idea,” Westhollow says. “We had just returned from the absolutely dreadful idea of stealing something from a dragon’s horde. Anna’s coat hides the bandages that covered her entire arm.”

“Did you intend to challenge me when you mentioned Galan during the duel?” I ask.

“Did Onóra tell you about Brighthollow’s death curse?” he asks.

“Somewhat.”

He nods as he walks away from the portrait. I follow him again. There are landscapes I’m unfamiliar with, and Westhollow stops in front of a painting of a castle on a steep cliff. I think it Dál Macha at first, then look again. The castle has more towers than Dál Macha, the castle itself more forbidding. A storm brews in the twilight sky, a horse and rider racing through a field of flowers to the castle’s gate.

“How did you meet Galan?” I ask, walking past the painting.

“You have so many questions,” he says, walking across the room to admire another portrait. I stop by a window, breathing shallowly as my head begins to hurt again. The candles flare around me and I close my eyes against them, steadying myself against the wall as a wave of dizziness overcomes me. When I open my eyes, Westhollow is watching me. He looks so bored.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I appreciate the concern.”

He almost looks amused. “I was going to issue an invitation to tonight’s festivities, but if you are unwell still . . .”

I grin at him despite my head. “I am never too unwell for a drink.”

Westhollow crosses the room to me, grabbing my hand and turning it to reveal the inside of my wrist. The crossing cuts from the gryphon and Brighthollow are just visible, the skin around them bruised. “Watch these,” he says, running his finger over one. “If the skin around them dies, or you bleed black, then the magic is poisoning you.”

“Lovely thought. If they heal normally?”

He drops my hand. “Then the magic isn’t poisoning you. Hold still.”

He takes my chin in his hand before I can ask why, holding his thumb over my lips. His eyes close as he murmurs something. I look him over lazily. He’s shorter than me, handsome and beautiful as the Fair Folk are rumored to always be. There’s a heavy dusting of freckles across his pale face, and thick lashes frame brown eyes when he opens them again, as dark as the hair carefully braided back from his face. The hairstyle is far more controlled and strict than the relaxed way it falls around his face in the portrait. It makes him look older, but I can see why Galan was attracted to him.

“My head doesn’t hurt anymore,” I say softly, taking a step closer.

He steps back, dropping his hand. “We weren’t sure why you’ve been so unwell, but it seems to be that your body is simply adjusting. You were never trained with magic and so your body treats it like an illness.”

“Is that normal?”

“Follow me if you wish to join me,” he says, beckoning.

I frown, but follow. He leads me through the foyer and past the stairs, down a hallway lined with statues and flowers spilling out vases. A door at the end the of wall is draped with ivy, cool to the touch as I push it aside and duck through. The room is lit with candles, warm from braziers placed around the room. Clusters of cushions surround the braziers, many occupied with Fair Folk. Westhollow accepts a pipe from someone sitting near the door, leaning down to share the smoke with the man. I walk by them, accepting a glass of wine from someone and stand next to a pair playing some sort of game. They say nothing as they move the pieces across the board, only pass wine and a pipe back and forth. One of them stands after inhaling on the pipe, stretching their body along mine as they guide my face to theirs. Smoke rises between us as they kiss me, and they blow the rest of the smoke at my nose.

It’s an intoxicant that’s hard to find on Dál Macha and I kneel next to the game board to accept the pipe, smiling as the Fair Folk holds a small flame to the bowl. Westhollow sits with the man he shares a pipe with, content to forget about me. I drink my wine as I watch him, accepting another glass when mine is emptied, but Westhollow only ever speaks quietly with the other man. Smoke fills the air around me, and the Fair Folk attempt to teach me their game. I pay little attention, more interested in Westhollow when he stands and begins to walk around the room again. More games are played around the room, from game boards to drinking games, and Westhollow avoids them all. Bets are placed at each game, some seeming silly and inconsequential while others clearly have a history behind the bets placed.

I accept the pipe again before I stand, blowing out the smoke slowly as I look for Westhollow. He stands next to an alcove, accepting a glass of wine from a woman who tries to kiss him. He turns his head so she gets his cheek and she laughs, giving him another kiss to the cheek before leaving his side. I approach before he can move, smiling as I hold up my near empty glass.

“Pleasant,” I say. “Not quite what I expected for the Fair Folk.”

“It’s only just begun,” he replies, staring at me over the rim of his cup as he drinks from it.

“Did Galan attend these kinds of parties with you?” I ask.

Westhollow’s head cocks to the side. “You still have so many questions.”

“I’d have fewer if any of them were answered.”

He smiles and steps by me, pausing to put his hand against my arm as he looks up at me. “Enjoy the party, Bridei. Perhaps it may enlighten you.”