“This is beautiful,” Red murmured, turning in a circle with her eyes still on the ceiling.
A brief snort snapped her attention away. Eammon leaned against the windowsill behind her, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching a steaming mug. His hair was tied back, the short tuft where she’d cut it for their thread bond sticking out awkwardly behind his ear. “The handiwork of the Wilderwood. The tower and the Keep sprang up when Gaya and Ciaran made their bargain, fully furnished.” He sipped from his cup. “A housewarming present. Ciaran built the rest of the Keep around it.”
Ciaran. Gaya. He never referred to them as his parents, only by their names or titles. Turning them into distant people who didn’t require warmth.
She knew the feeling.
Red went to the hearth and chafed her hands. The windows had no panes, and the room was as cold as the forest outside. “So the Wilderwood made these?” She gestured to the paintings on the ceiling.
“No.” Eammon walked to the table in the center of the room and poured more coffee from a waiting kettle. Another mug sat next to it; he looked to Red, eyes a question. At her nod, he filled the second mug, too. “Gaya painted them.”
Her eyes turned to the constellations again, an odd, weighty feeling in her chest.
“Any particular reason to meet here?” She picked up the mug he’d poured her, wrapping her hands around its warmth. “Pardon the observation, but you don’t seem to like it much.”
He made a gruff noise that might’ve been a laugh. Eammon sank into one of the chairs, tipping it back on two legs. “Because this place was made by the Wilderwood, so its magic is stronger here.”
The knot of her magic still felt looser this morning, teased apart, untangled. The result of their quick thread-bond marriage, she knew, but now that she turned her thoughts to it, some of the ease might come from the tower, too. Blooming along with the flowers on the walls as she moved up the stairwell.
Still, the thought of using it hollowed a pit in her stomach.
The coffee was strong, and bitter enough to make Red pull a face. “Could the Wilderwood’s magic manage to conjure up some cream?”
“Afraid not. I’ll add it to the supply list.” Eammon took a long drink of his own. “For all its force, the Wilderwood’s power is rather limited. It can affect growing things, or anything else connected to the forest, but that’s about it.”
“It can heal wounds, too.”
“Only if the wounded person is connected to the Wilderwood.”
She tightened her grip on her cup to keep from touching her face, the place along her cheekbone where the thorn had scored her a week ago. “You didn’t really heal it, though,” she said. “You just . . . took it. It showed up on you.”
“Pain has to go somewhere.” The chair legs creaked as Eammon leaned back. “It’s a balance. The vine that lights the Keep will hold the flames without burning, but it won’t grow. Neither will the branches the firewood was cut from. Wounds can’t just go away— they’re transferred.”
They didn’t look at each other, but the awareness was solid as a stare. Red took another sip of her bitter coffee.
“Your power must work similarly to mine,” Eammon said to the ceiling. “Since they’re the same thing. Mostly.”
Her brow furrowed. “But when I can’t keep it contained, I don’t . . . like how you . . .” She trailed off, not sure how to phrase it delicately.
“You don’t change like I do.” Quiet but matter-of-fact.
“No,” she murmured. “I don’t.”
A visible swallow down the column of his throat. “My ties to the Wilderwood are stronger than yours,” Eammon said. “And when I use its power, it . . . takes part of me away. The changes fade, usually, but it’s still unpleasant. And some things linger.” He shrugged, stilted. “That’s why I use blood, sometimes. It works the same way the magic does, without opening me up to quite as much alteration.”
The last word came out bitter. Still looking at the ceiling, Eammon rubbed at the spot above his wristbone where she’d seen bark edge through his skin.
Red nodded, sliding her gaze from his silhouette to the wavering reflection in her coffee mug. “So I won’t change, because my magic isn’t as strong as yours.”
“Exactly. Not as strong, and more chaotic.”
“To put it mildly.”
“We should focus on control, then. Channeling only a small amount at a time, directed to a specific task.”