A Court of Silver Flames - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,206

Some sort of primal goddess—perhaps even the Mother herself. Nesta hadn’t let herself dwell on why she’d felt the need to set the rose there. Why she hadn’t just thrown it in a drawer.

Another log cracked, and Nesta flinched. But she remained sitting there. Staring at that carved rose.

Would she live the rest of her life like Emerie, always glancing over a shoulder for the shadow of the past to haunt her? Did she appear as Emerie had this afternoon, terrified and pained?

She owed herself more than that. Emerie, too, deserved more. A chance to live a life without fear and dread.

So Nesta could try. Right now. She’d face this fire.

Another log cracked. Nesta ground her teeth. Breathe. Inhale for six, hold, exhale for six.

She did just that.

This is a fire. It reminds you of your father, of something horrible happening. But this is not him, and while you are feeling uncomfortable, you can get through it.

Nesta focused on her breathing. Made herself unclench each of her too-tight muscles, starting with her face and working all the way down to her toes.

All while she told herself, over and over, This is a fire. It makes you uncomfortable. This is why you react as you do. You can breathe through this. Work through this.

Her body didn’t loosen, but she was able to sit there. Endure the fire until it dimmed to embers, and then went out entirely.

She didn’t know why she found herself on the verge of tears as the cinders smoldered. Didn’t know why the rush of pride that filled her chest made her want to laugh and whoop and dance around the room. She hadn’t done anything more than sit by a fire, but … she had sat. Stayed.

She had not failed. She had faced it and survived.

She might not have saved the world or led armies, but she had made this small, initial step.

Nesta wiped at her eyes, and when she looked around her quiet room, she startled to find a trail of evergreen twigs leading to her now-open door.

Cocking a brow, she rose. “What’s all this about?” she asked the House, following the trail it had left.

Down the hall, along the stairs, all the way down to the library itself. “Where are we going?” Nesta asked the warm air. Mercifully, even the night owls amongst the priestesses had gone to sleep, leaving no one to see her hurrying after the trail of branches. Around the levels of the library they twined, deeper and deeper, until they reached the seventh level.

Nesta drew up short as the trail stopped at the edge of the wall of darkness.

A light flickered beyond it. Several lights.

As if to say, Come. Don’t be afraid.

So Nesta sucked in a breath as she stepped into the gloom.

Little tea lights wended into a familiar darkness. She and Feyre had once ventured down here—had faced horrors here. No evidence remained of that day. Only the firelit dimness, the candles leading her to the lowest levels of the library.

To the pit itself.

Nesta followed them, spiraling to the bottom of the pit, where one small lantern glowed, faintly illuminating the rows of books veiled in permanent shadow around it.

Heart racing, Nesta lifted the lantern in one hand and gazed at the darkness, untouched by the light from the library high, high above. The heart of the world, of existence. Of self.

The heart of the House.

“This …” Her fingers tightened on the lantern. “This darkness is your heart.”

As if in answer, the House laid a little evergreen sprig at her feet.

“A Winter Solstice present. For me.”

She could have sworn a warm hand brushed her neck in answer. “But your darkness …” Wonder softened her voice. “You were trying to show me. Show others. Who you are, down deep. What haunts you. You were trying to show them all those dark, broken pieces because the priestesses, and Emerie, and I … We’re the same as you.”

Her throat constricted at what the House had gifted her. This knowledge.

She lifted the lantern higher and blew out its flame.

Let the darkness sweep in. Embraced it.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispered into it. “You are my friend, and my home. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

Again, Nesta could have sworn that phantom touch caressed her neck, her cheek, her brow.

“Happy Solstice,” she said into the beautiful, fractured darkness.

CHAPTER

57

Cassian normally looked forward to Winter Solstice for a host of reasons, starting with the usual three days of drinking with his family and ending with the riotous