Page 237 of Keldori By Daybreak

The wooden steps to the upstairs apartment creaked under our weight, and the savory smell of the kielbasa dish Maxwell had made before his departure wafted down the stairwell.

Fana and Mom ate alone at the kitchen table. Jonquil chirped at us from where she tip-toed between Gams’s painted chickens on the kitchen windowsill. The sagging couch that had become my temporary home held freshly laundered and folded quilts, waiting for me to return to them at bedtime.

“There’s money on the counter,” I said to Mom. “Maxwell went home.”

“I don’t need his money.” Mom’s voice was hollow.

I avoided looking at her. She was the perfect clone of Gams, and every time I looked her way, I ran the risk of bursting into fresh tears.

“He knows.”

I led Ciarán down the narrow hall to my old bedroom and knocked on the door.

Iseult answered, holding a bowl of kielbasa and noodles.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“I would like to talk to Lady Quill.” Ciarán bowed his head.

Iseult, taken aback either by Ciarán’s sudden respect for Orla or by the fact that he was speaking again, stepped aside.

Orla was propped up against pillows, and her short hair stuck up at the back of her head. She grimaced in pain as she adjusted herself when we stepped in.

“Ciarán,” she said evenly. Her voice was weak, but she held her chin high.

Ciarán faltered, and that buzzing along the tether intensified as he looked sideways at Iseult.

Orla nodded Iseult towards the door. When Iseult took her leave, I moved to follow her, but Ciarán’s hand gripped my wrist, keeping me at his side.

He waited until Iseult had closed the door before walking forward and kneeling on the wooden floorboards at Orla’s bedside. Dark hair fell forward to hang in his face.

Orla’s brow knit, and she looked between Ciarán and me for an explanation.

“I owe you an apology,” Ciarán croaked.

Orla’s lips parted in confusion, and her eyebrows unknit so they could lift up on her forehead.

“You did nothing wrong,” she said softly.

“I called you naive,” he admitted. “On Davyn’s boat when we were on the way to Lyria’s door. I overheard you discussing death with Wren, and I thought you were a fool. To say that death was an unsavory solution, I thought that made you weak. I wanted Ferrin dead more than anything. And I’m sorry. I’m glad he’s dead, but—”

He broke off as his voice hitched, and my view of Orla sitting in my twin bed swam. Ciarán’s view—or rather, his memory—took its place.

Red blood spilled over ice, and Ferrin broke in my four limbs of claw and shadow. He screamed up at me, still alive and full of vinegar and wrath, but I knew what would happen next. I shook myself away from Ciarán’s thoughts before I could watch the memory play out.

“Ciarán,” Orla sighed.

“I did not enjoy killing him,” he whispered. “He died just how I’d promised. Slowly. Painfully. And he needed to die, but you’re right. It is not a good thing when death is the only solution, and it is not an honor to be the one to deal it.”

Orla sat perfectly still on the bed but for the single tear that traced the curve of her cheek. After several long moments, she held a hand out to him.

He took it in his, staring at it incredulously, as if unsure what to do with it.

“I shouldn’t have used your rotsbane as a weapon against Ferrin,” she murmured. “Ciarán, I’m so sorry.”

A small sob escaped her lips, and she winced in pain and withdrew her hand to brace her ribs with her arms.

“Orla, let me heal you,” I begged.