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usual caution, no dart of her eyes as she
weighed the exits and pitfalls, potential
weapons to wield.
A trance—it was almost as if she had
slipped into a trance, plunged into some
depthless ocean inside herself and drifted so
far down that they might as well have been
birds soaring over its distant surface.
But she walked toward that wall, the birch
branches artfully displayed across it. More of
the Little Folk within, Rowan realized.
Perched on the branches, clinging to them.
Aelin’s steps were silent on the stone.
Fenrys halted nearby, as if to give her privacy.
Rowan had the vague sense of Lorcan,
Elide, and Gavriel heading for the alcove
across the cave to inspect the goods that had
been laid out.
But he lingered in the center of the space as
his mate paused before the shining, living