A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses #4) by Sarah J. Maas

“Fine.”

“Good one, Nes.” He threw her a mocking grin that he knew made her see red, and strode to the center of the practice area. He halted in its heart, allowing his breathing to take over.

When she didn’t reply, he let himself fall into that calm, steady place within his mind, let his body begin the series of motions he’d performed for five centuries straight.

The initial steps were to remind his body that it was about to start working. Stretching and breathing, concentrating on everything from his toes to the tips of his wings. Waking everything up.

It got harder from there.

Cassian yielded to instinct and movement and breath, only dimly aware of the female watching from that rock.

Keep reaching out your hand.



Cassian was breathless by the time he finished an hour later. Nesta, to his satisfaction, had become rigid with cold.

But she hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even shifted during his exercises.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he noted that her lips had taken on a blue tinge. Unacceptable.

He indicated Rhys’s mother’s house. “Go wait in there. I have business to attend to.”

She didn’t move.

Cassian rolled his eyes. “Either you sit out here for the next hour, or you can go inside and warm up.”

She wasn’t that stubborn—was she?

Thankfully, a blast of icy wind hit the camp at that exact moment, and Nesta began moving toward the house.

Its interior was indeed warm, with a fire crackling in the sooty hearth that occupied much of the main room. Feyre or Rhys must have woken the house for them. He held the door for Nesta as she walked in, already rubbing her hands.

Slowly, Nesta surveyed the space: the kitchen table before the windows, the little sitting area that occupied the other half of the room, the narrow staircase that led to the exposed upstairs hallway and the two bedrooms beyond. One of those rooms had been his since childhood—the first bedroom, the first night indoors, he’d ever experienced.

This house was the first true home he’d ever had. He knew every scratch and splinter, every dent and burn mark, all of it preserved with magic. There, the gouged-out spot by the base of the railing—that was where he’d cracked his head when Rhys had tackled him during one of their countless brawls. There, that stain on the old red couch: that was when he’d spilled his ale while the three of them were drunk out of their minds on their first solo night in this house at age sixteen—Rhys’s mother had been off in Velaris for a rare visit to her mate—and Cassian had been too stupid drunk to know how to clean it. Even Rhys, swaying with the combination of ale and liquor, had failed to lift the stain, his magic accidentally setting it instead of wiping it away. They’d rearranged the throw pillows to hide it from his mother when she returned the next morning, but she’d spied it immediately.

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.”