Phelan’s hand closed around Marin’s arm. It was a rare thing to be sure, seeing her so oddly shaken by sudden conviction. She’d gone abruptly pale, the blood draining from her face, and she seemed unsteady on her feet.
What in the name of all the powers that be did she see—and what is it that she suddenly can’t remember?
His brows knit. I don’t like this one bit.
It was far too soon.
He’d spent too many of his long, aching years gathering stories and prophecies, trying to piece legends and lore together into a road map, a tapestry. That was his sacred duty as the Taliesin, like his cousin before him, their grandfather before them. The girl whose arm he held was special, had a destiny unlike others who had come before her. She was an integral thread. There were too many stories, too many legends, too many foretellings.
But it’s too soon.
Phelan felt sick.
Anselm was saying something, but he didn’t quite catch what it was. Mercifully, Neve intervened.
“Yes, a seat by your fire would be very welcome while we discuss this,” his cousin said, tossing both he and Marin a concerned look before she trailed after Anselm toward his tent and cookfire.
Phelan hesitated for a moment and kept his voice low as he spoke to Marin. “Are you okay?”
“No,” she whispered. “I think I’m very not okay, but I don’t think it matters, either.” She sucked in a breath and drew herself up a little straighter. “Come on. Can’t keep them waiting on us, right?”
“Right,” Phelan muttered, frowning. “That’d be a bad thing.”
Marin’s hand found his and squeezed. She gave him a brave smile, but he knew her well enough to recognize the fear in her eyes, the slight tremor in her jaw.
Just keep your shit together for the moment and we’ll figure it out later. We always seem to.
They followed in Anselm and Neve’s wake.
