A Court of Frost and Starlight (A Court of Thorns and Roses #3.1) by Sarah J. Maas

But to leave, to let Keir believe he had made her go with his bargain with Eris …

Coward. Pathetic coward.

She shut out the hissing in her head, running a hand down Ellia’s snowy mane.

She had not mentioned it these past few days in Velaris. Had wanted to make this choice on her own, and had understood how the news might cast a shadow over the merriment.

She knew Azriel would say no, would want her safe. As he had always done. Cassian would have said yes, Amren with him, and Feyre would have worried but agreed. Az would have been pissed, and withdrawn even further into himself.

She hadn’t wanted to take his joy away from him. Any more than she already did.

But she’d have to tell them, regardless of what she decided, at some point.

Ellia’s ears went flat against her head.

Mor stiffened, following the mare’s line of sight.

To the tangle of wood to their left, little more than a thatch of trees from this distance.

She rubbed Ellia’s neck. “Easy,” she breathed. “Easy.”

Even in these woods, ancient terrors had been known to emerge.

But Mor scented nothing, saw nothing. The tendril of power she speared toward the woods revealed only the usual birds and small beasts. A hart drinking from a hole in an iced-over stream.

Nothing, except—

There, between a snarl of thorns. A patch of darkness.

It did not move, did not seem to do anything but linger. And watch.

Familiar and yet foreign.

Something in her power whispered not to touch it, not to go near it. Even from this distance.

Mor obeyed.

But she still watched that darkness in the thorns, as if a shadow had fallen asleep amongst them.

Not like Azriel’s shadows, twining and whispering.

Something different.

Something that stared back, watching her in turn.

Best left undisturbed. Especially with the promise of a crackling fire and glass of wine at home.

“Let’s take the short route back,” she murmured to Ellia, patting her neck.

The horse needed no further encouragement before launching into a gallop, turning them from the woods and its shadowy watcher.

Over and between the hills they rode, until the woods were hidden in the mists behind them.

What else might she see, witness, in lands where none in the Night Court had ventured for millennia?

The question lingered with every thunderous step from Ellia over snow and brook and hill.

Its answer echoed off the rocks and trees and gray clouds overhead.

Go. Go.





CHAPTER

25

Feyre

Two days later, I stood in the doorway of Polina’s abandoned studio.

Gone were the boarded-up windows, the drooping cobwebs. Only open space remained, clean and wide.

I was still gaping when Ressina found me, halting on her path down the street, no doubt coming from her own studio. “Happy Solstice, my lady,” she said, smiling brightly.

I didn’t return the smile as I stared and stared at the open door. The space beyond.

Ressina laid a hand on my arm. “Is something wrong?”

My fingers curled at my sides, wrapping around the brass key in my palm. “It’s mine,” I said quietly.

Ressina’s smile began to grow again. “Is it, now?”

“They—her family gave it to me.”

It had happened this morning. I’d winnowed to Polina’s family farm, somehow surprising no one when I’d appeared. As if they’d been waiting.

Ressina angled her head. “So why the face?”

“They gave it to me.” I splayed my arms. “I tried to buy it. I offered her family money.” I shook my head, still reeling. I hadn’t even been back to the town house. Hadn’t even told Rhys. I’d woken at dawn, Rhys already off to meet with Az and Cassian at Devlon’s camp, and decided to hell with waiting. Putting life off didn’t make a lick of sense. I knew what I wanted. There was no reason to delay. “They handed me the deed, told me to sign my name to it, and gave me the key.” I rubbed my face. “They refused my money.”

Ressina let out a long whistle. “I’m not surprised.”

“Polina’s sister, though,” I said, my voice shaking as I pocketed the key in my overcoat, “suggested I use the money for something else. That if I wanted to give it away, I should donate it to the Brush and Chisel. Do you know what that is?”

I’d been too stunned to ask, to do anything other than nod and say I would.

Ressina’s ochre eyes softened. “It’s a charity for artists in need of financial help—to provide them and their families with money for food or rent or clothes. So they needn’t go hungry or want for anything while they create.”

I couldn’t stop the tears that blurred my vision. Couldn’t stop myself from remembering those years in that cottage, the hollow ache of hunger. The image of those three little containers of paint that I’d savored.

“I didn’t know it existed,” I managed to whisper. Even with all the committees that I volunteered to help, they had not mentioned it.

I didn’t know that there was a place, a world, where artists might be valued. Taken care of. I’d never dreamed of such a thing.

A warm, slender hand landed on my shoulder, gently squeezing.

Ressina asked, “So what are you going to do with it? The studio.”