He looked surprised to see her at first, attention diverted from Fife’s dripping spoon. But then Raffe grabbed her shoulders and pulled her into a rough hug. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, of course not.” She backed up, confusion creasing her forehead. “What are you—”
“I’ll thank you to keep your hands off my wife.” Eammon filled the doorframe, eyes flaring like embers.
“Shadows damn us, I’m perfectly fine. On both counts.” Red pushed Raffe’s hands from her shoulders. “Eammon, this is Raffe. A friend of mine from Valleyda. Raffe, Eammon.” She paused. “The Wolf.”
“I gathered.” Raffe’s fingers twitched toward his dagger hilt. When he spoke, it was almost a snarl. “What have you done with Neve?”
Her arms went slack. “What do you mean?”
“She’s gone, Red.”
Red blinked. The room seemed to fade in and out of focus, the edges of things muddied and misty.
Neve. The panic from last night, the storm of emotions Eammon had helped soothe away, came rushing back. She and Eammon would come up with something, she had to believe it, because what else could she do? But now, with Raffe’s tired, worried eyes boring into her, helplessness in his face . . .
Her knees felt watery.
“You came all the way to the Wilderwood to make accusations?” Eammon put a steadying hand on Red’s shoulder, like he could tell she was a breath away from drowning. His jaw was a harsh line in the dim light. “The Queen isn’t here.”
“That’s what I told him,” Fife said darkly. He brandished the soup spoon in Raffe’s direction. “He wouldn’t listen.”
“She’s not in Valleyda, not in Floriane. She’s gone, and the only thing she’s talked of since Red left is getting her back.” Raffe looked at the Wolf’s hand on Red’s shoulder with burning eyes, and a snarl bent his mouth. “Isn’t one sister enough?”
“Raffe.” Her own voice cleared the fog in her head. Red drew herself up under Eammon’s hand. “I promise you, she isn’t here. Tell me what happened.” Her voice shook. “Please.”
Raffe’s eyes tracked from Red to Eammon, the calculation in them clear. “He might have her hidden away.” Distrust sharpened his voice to a razor-edge. “He’s the Wolf, Red, and no matter what he’s told you—”
“I know who he is, Raffe.”
“He isn’t . . .” Raffe stepped forward, mouth pulled tight, but something beyond her caught his attention. Anger bled away to incredulity, then wonder.
Lyra stood in the doorframe, tor drawn, backlit by autumn light that made a corona of her dark curls. Her eyes narrowed at Raffe, mouth somewhere between a smirk and a snarl. “Please continue,” she said, polite as any courtier. “If I want you to stop talking, you’ll know.”
Raffe’s eyes were round as moons. His mouth worked, like he’d forgotten how to form words. Slowly, he raised his fist to his forehead, and it took Red a moment to remember where she’d seen the motion— a traditional greeting, from one Meducian noble to another.
“Plaguebreaker,” Raffe murmured. “You look . . . damn me, you look just like the statue.”
Fife and Eammon darted glances, their faces identical masks of guarded acceptance. Whatever had just occurred to Raffe, it wasn’t a surprise to them. But there was a new tension in their frames, prepared to jump to Lyra’s defense at the slightest provocation.
A beat, and Lyra sheathed her tor. She balled a fist, raised it briefly to her forehead, then crossed her arms. “I didn’t know that story was still told.”
Red’s brow furrowed. Plaguebreaker . . . like the myth of the Plague Stars, a whole constellation winking out at the moment of miraculous healing. And the band of root around Lyra’s arm, and Fife’s answer when she asked what Lyra bargained for: Her story is longer and more noble than mine.
“Not everyone knows it.” Raffe sounded half entranced. “But there are those in Meducia who remember you, who revere you as much as or more than the Kings. The altar is still there, in the cliffs by the harbor. They leave you gold coins and pray for healing from illness.” He shook his head. “My father brought some, once. When I was young. I was sick, and after he prayed, I got better.”
Lyra’s lips twisted, face unreadable. “I doubt I had anything to do with that.”
“Still.” He took a tentative step closer. His head arced toward the floor, like he might bow, then he thought better of it. “How did you do it? How did you stop the plague?”