This was their sanctuary, gifted to them by Rhysand. No one could enter without their permission.
Which meant they’d approved her presence, for whatever reason.
Nesta’s hands were near-withered with dust by the time a bell chimed six silvery peals throughout the cavernous library, ringing from its top levels down to the black pit. Some priestesses rose from where they worked at the desks and chairs on each level; some remained.
She found Clotho at the same desk. Did she ever lift her hood? She must, in order to bathe, but did she ever show anyone her face?
“I’m done for the day,” Nesta announced.
Clotho slid another note across the desk.
Thank you for your assistance. We will see you tomorrow.
“All right.” Nesta pocketed the note.
But Clotho held up a broken hand. Nesta watched with no shortage of awe as a fountain pen lifted above a piece of paper and began to write.
Wear clothes you don’t mind getting dusty. You’ll wreck that beautiful dress down here.
Nesta glanced to the gray gown she’d thrown on. “All right,” she repeated.
The pen began moving again, somehow spelled to connect with Clotho’s thoughts. It was nice to meet you, Nesta. Feyre speaks highly of you.
Nesta turned away. “No one likes a liar, Priestess.”
She could have sworn a breath of amusement fluttered from beneath the female’s hood.
Cassian didn’t come to dinner.
Nesta had stopped in her room only long enough to wash the dust from her hands and face, and then nearly sprinted upstairs, stomach growling.
The dining room had been empty. The place setting for one confirmed that she was in for a solitary meal.
She’d stared at the sunset-bathed city far below, the sole sounds her rustling dress and creaking chair.
Why was she surprised? She’d humiliated him at Windhaven. He was probably with his friends at the river house, ranting at them to find some other way to deal with her.
A plate of food appeared, dumped unceremoniously onto the place mat. Even the House hated her.
Nesta scowled at the red-stoned room. “Wine.”
None appeared. She lifted the glass before her. “Wine.”
Nothing. She tapped her nails on the table’s smooth surface. “Were you told to not give me wine?”
Talking to a house: a new low.
But as if in answer, the glass filled with water.
Nesta snarled toward the open archway at her back. “Funny.”
She surveyed the food: half a roast chicken seasoned with what smelled like rosemary and thyme; mashed potatoes swimming in butter; and green beans sautéed with garlic.
That silence roared in her head, in the room.
She drummed her fingers again.
Ridiculous. This whole thing, this high-handed interference was ridiculous.
Nesta stood and aimed for the doorway. “Keep your wine. I’ll get my own.”
CHAPTER
7
Without the wall’s magic blocking access to the human lands, Mor winnowed Cassian after sundown directly to the manor that had become home and headquarters to Jurian, Vassa, and—apparently—Lucien. Even more than a year later, the ravages of war lay evident around the estate: trees felled, barren patches of earth where greenery had not yet returned, and a general bleak openness that made the gray-stoned house seem like an accidental survivor. In the moonlight, that starkness was even emptier, the remnants of trees silvered, the shadows in the pockmarked earth deeper.
Cassian didn’t know to whom the home had once belonged, and apparently neither did its new occupants. Feyre had told him that they called themselves the Band of Exiles. Cassian snorted to himself at the thought. Mor didn’t linger upon dropping him at the house’s arched wooden door, smirking in a way that told him even if he begged her to help, she wouldn’t. No, she wanted to see him play courtier, precisely as Rhys had asked.
He hadn’t planned on starting this mission today, but after that disastrous attempt at a lesson with Nesta, he’d needed to do something. Anything.
Nesta had known exactly what bullshit she was pulling by refusing to get off that rock. How it would appear to Devlon and the other preening assholes. She’d known, and done it anyway.
So as soon as he’d dumped Nesta at the House, he’d headed to a deserted cliff by the sea where the roar of the surf drowned the raging heat in his bones.
He’d stopped by the river house to admit to his failure, but Feyre had only simmered with annoyance at Nesta’s behavior, and Rhys had given him a wary, amused look.
It was Amren who had said, Let her dig her own grave, boy. Then offer her a hand.