Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that they’d still been drunk, given away by Az’s relentless hiccupping.

Cassian nodded to the kitchen table. “Since you’re so good at sitting, why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”

When she didn’t answer, he turned to find Nesta standing in front of the hearth, arms tightly crossed, the flickering light dancing in her beautiful hair. She didn’t look up at him.

She’d always stood with that stillness. Even as a human. It had only amplified when she’d become High Fae.

Nesta stared at the fire as if it murmured to that burning soul of hers.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

She blinked, seeming to realize he was still there.

A log on the fire popped, and she flinched.

Not in surprise, he noted, but in dread. Fear.

He glanced between her and the fire. Where had she gone, for those few moments? What horror had she been reliving?

Her face had blanched. And shadows dimmed her blue-gray eyes.

He knew that expression. Had seen it and felt it so many times he’d lost track.

“There are some shops in the village,” he offered, suddenly desperate for anything to remove that hollowness from her. “If you don’t feel like sitting in here, you could visit them.”

Nesta still said nothing. So he let it drop, and left the house in silence.

CHAPTER

9

Nesta stepped into the warmth of the small shop. The bell above the door jangled as she entered.

The floors were fresh pine, all polished and gleaming, a matching counter occupying the back, an open door beyond it revealing a rear room. Clothes for both males and females occupied the space, some displayed on dummies, others folded neatly along display tables.

A dark-haired female appeared on the other side of the counter, her braided-back hair shining in the lights. Her face was striking—elegant and sharp, contrasting with her full mouth. Her angular eyes and light brown skin suggested a heritage from another region, perhaps a recent ancestor from the Dawn Court. The light in those eyes was direct. Clear.

“Good morning,” the female said, her voice solid and frank. “Can I help you?”

If she recognized Nesta, she didn’t let on. Nesta gestured down at her fighting leathers. “I was looking for something warmer than this. The cold leaks through.”

“Ah,” the female said, glancing toward the door and the empty street beyond. Worried that someone might see her in here? Or waiting for another customer? “The warriors are all such proud fools that they never complain about the leathers being cold. They claim they keep them perfectly warm.”

“They’re decently warm,” Nesta confessed, part of her smiling at the way the female had said proud fools. As if she shared Nesta’s instinct to be unimpressed by the males in the camp. “But the cold still hits me.”

“Hmmm.” The woman folded back the partition on the counter, entering the showroom proper. She surveyed Nesta from head to toe. “I don’t sell fighting gear, but I wonder if we could get fleece-lined leathers made.” She nodded toward the street. “How often do you train?”

“I’m not training. I’m …” Nesta struggled for the right words. Honestly, what she was doing was being a wretched asshole. “I’m watching,” she said a shade pathetically.

“Ah.” The female’s eyes glinted. “Brought here against your will?”

It was none of her business. But Nesta said, “Part of my duties to the Night Court.”

She wanted to see if the female would pry, to see if she really did not know her. If she would judge her for being a miserable waste of life.

The female angled her head, her braid slipping over the shoulder of her simple, homespun gown. Her wings twitched, the motion drawing Nesta’s eye. Scars ran down them—unusual for the Fae. Azriel and Lucien were two of the few who bore scars, both from traumas so terrible Nesta had never dared ask for details. For this female to bear them as well—

“My wings were clipped,” the female said. “My father was a … traditional male. He believed females should serve their families and be confined to their homes. I disagreed. He won, in the end.”

Sharp, short words. Rhys’s mother, Feyre had once told her, had nearly been doomed to such a fate. Only the arrival of his father had stopped the clipping from occurring. She’d been revealed as his mate, and endured the miserable union mostly from gratitude for her unharmed wings.

No one, it seemed, had been there to save this female.

“I’m sorry.” Nesta shifted on her feet.

The female waved a slim hand. “It’s of no consequence now. This shop keeps me busy enough that some days I forget I could ever fly in the first place.”

“No healer can repair them?”

Her face tightened, and Nesta regretted her question. “It is extremely complex—all the connecting muscles and nerves and senses. Short of the High Lord of Dawn, I’m not certain anyone could handle it.” Thesan, Nesta recalled, was a master of healing—Feyre bore his power in her veins. Had offered to use it to heal Elain from her stupor after being turned High Fae.

Nesta blocked out the memory of that pale face, the empty brown eyes.

“Anyway,” the female said quickly, “I can make inquiries to my suppliers about whether the leathers could be made warmer. It might take a few weeks, possibly a month, but I’ll send word as soon as I hear.”

“That’s fine. Thank you.” A thought clanged through Nesta. “I— How much will it cost?” She had no money.

“You work for the High Lord, do you not?” The female angled her head again. “I can send the bill to Velaris.”

“They …” Nesta didn’t want to admit how low she’d fallen—not to this stranger. “I actually don’t need the warmer clothes.”

“I thought Rhysand paid you all well.”

“He does, but I am …” Fine. If the female could be blunt, so could she. “I’m cut off.”

Curiosity flooded the female’s eyes. “Why?”

Nesta stiffened. “I don’t know you well enough to tell you that.”

The female shrugged. “All right. I can still make inquiries. Get a price for you. If you’re cold out there, you shouldn’t suffer.” She added pointedly, “No matter what the High Lord may think.”

“I think he’d rather Cassian threw me off the edge of that cliff over there.”

The female snorted. But she held out a hand toward Nesta. “I’m Emerie.”

Nesta took her hand, surprised to find her grip like iron. “Nesta Archeron.”

“I know,” Emerie said, releasing Nesta’s hand. “You killed the King of Hybern.”

“Yes.” There was no denying that fact. And she couldn’t bring herself to lie that she wasn’t the least bit smug about it.

“Good.” Emerie’s smile was a thing of dangerous beauty. She said again, “Good.” There was steel in this female. Not just in her straight spine and chin, but in her eyes.

Nesta turned toward the door and waiting cold, unsure what to do with the naked approval of what so many others had regarded either with awe or fear or doubt. “Thank you for your help.”