Morag rested her forehead against the saddle. “I can’t stop you from thinking, Padrick.”

“That’s settled, then. Take the saddle off the horse. We’ll all get a few hours sleep and be on our way at first light.”

Morag debated for a moment, then decided the horse was worth more than her pride. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to lift it off him.”

Padrick shouldered her out of the way. She chose not to hear what he muttered under his breath while he put the saddle on the nearest rack, made sure the dark horse had feed and water, and led her back to the house. He was still muttering when he pushed her into her room and closed the door with a firmness that was just short of unfriendly.

Morag stared at the door for a long time before she changed her clothes and climbed into bed.

Since Ashk often wore a pleased, lazy smile after spending time alone with Padrick, Morag suspected there were compensations for putting up with the man. But she also decided that every nip Ashk gave him was a nip well deserved.

Chapter 38

waxing moon

Jenny stood on the cliffs, staring out at the gentle sea. Fishing boats rode easy swells. She shuddered at the thought of what they might bring up in their nets.

“I thought I would find you here.”

She turned and watched Mihail walk toward her. “You shouldn’t be up yet. You need to rest.”

He smiled and shook his head. “My shoulder and back were burned, not my legs. I needed to move, needed the fresh air.”

Jenny turned back to the sea, felt the warmth of his hand when he rested it on her shoulder.

“If you’re going to brood and feel guilty, I can remind you of all the people who wouldn’t have survived if you hadn’t used the sea to defend us against the Inquisitors’ warships.”

“Will you also remind me of all the people who didn’t survive?” Jenny asked softly. “There are empty chairs around the tables in this village, Mihail. There are empty chairs around the tables in the other Clan houses.”

“That wasn’t your doing, Jenny.” Mihail squeezed her shoulder. “Murtagh made a point of telling me the Fae who were flying around those ships weren’t killed by the sea. Arrows killed them. Or fire if they were splashed when one of those pots of liquid fire struck a ship. They fought for themselves and their land and their way of life just as much as they fought to help us. Just as we would have fought to help them.”

The words washed against a different kind of pain, a different kind of grief, trying to break through and smooth the rough edges of emotion, like the sea’s relentless dance with stone.