A Court of Silver Flames - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,93

her mouth while Azriel pounded into her from behind, the two of them working her in tandem—

Talking to Gwyn about the Dread Trove had sobered her up fast enough.

“It seems like the Trove has a glamour to make people forget that it exists,” Nesta said to Gwyn, and succinctly explained what it was, along with vague details about why it was wanted. She didn’t mention Queen Briallyn, or Koschei, or the Cauldron. Only that the Trove must be found quickly. And that Gwyn should not mention it to anyone.

Nesta supposed that in doing so, she directly disobeyed Rhys’s order for silence, but … to hell with him.

When she was done, Gwyn was wide-eyed, her face so pale that her freckles stood out in stark relief. “And you must find it?”

“I don’t have the faintest idea where to begin looking. Which one to find first.”

Gwyn chewed on her bottom lip. “We do have an extensive card-cataloging system,” she mused idly, but peered toward the stacks beyond them, to the open pit at the bottom of the library. “But they don’t list what’s below Level Seven.”

“I know.”

Gwyn angled her head. “So why come to me?”

“You’re clearly good at what you do, if you’re working with someone as demanding as Merrill. If you have a spare moment, any help would be appreciated. Or just point me in a direction.”

“Let me finish proofing this chapter and then I’ll see what I can discover.”

Nesta offered a tight smile. “Thank you.”

Gwyn waved a hand. “Finding objects to help our court protect the world is rather exciting. About as exciting as I’m willing to get these days, but it shall be an adventure.”

“You could come to training if you want another sort of adventure,” Nesta said carefully.

Gwyn offered her a tight smile. “That’s not for me, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?”

Gwyn gestured to Nesta’s fighting leathers, the overlapping scales. “I’m not a warrior.”

“Neither am I. But you could be.”

Gwyn shook her head. “I don’t think so. If I wished to be a warrior, I would have gone that route as a child. Instead I offered myself as an acolyte—and that is what I am.”

“You don’t have to give up one thing to be the other. Training is exercise. Learning to breathe and stretch and fight. Aren’t you researching Valkyries for Merrill? That might even give you further insight.” Nesta patted a thigh. “And I already have muscle building up. Two weeks, and I can tell the difference.”

“Why would a priestess need muscular thighs?”

Nesta narrowed her eyes as Gwyn went back to her work. “Is it Cassian?”

“Cassian is a good and honorable male.”

“I know he is.” She’d always known it. She pressed, “But is it Cassian’s presence that makes you hesitate?”

There had been no hint this morning as to what had gone on between them last night. As if the debt between them had been paid, and he had no further interest in touching her. Like she was an itch scratched, and that was it. Or perhaps he had not enjoyed it as she had.

It unsettled her, that she spent so much time thinking about it.

Gwyn didn’t answer, and Nesta knew she had no right to push, not when color stole over Gwyn’s cheeks and her head bowed slightly. Shame—it was shame and fear.

Something in Nesta’s chest tightened as she began to walk away. “All right. Let me know if you learn anything regarding the Trove.”

Nesta mulled the conversation over during the hours she worked. When she checked the sign-up sheet as she left the library at sundown, no names had been added.

She felt Clotho’s eyes on her as she surveyed the empty page. Nesta at last turned toward the priestess, seated at her desk with her hands folded before her. Silence stretched between them, but Nesta said nothing as she left.

She went to the stairwell rather than to her room or the dining room, and stared down into the curving redness of the steps.

Nesta began the descent, slower this time, contemplating each placement of her foot. Let each step downward be a thought, a piece of one of Amren’s puzzles, that she sifted through.

Down and down she went, turning over each word and glance from Gwyn during the time Nesta had worked in the library. Step to step, she told herself with each burning, trembling movement of her legs. Step to step to step.

Again, she replayed the conversation. Each step was a different word, or motion, or scent.

Nesta was on step two thousand when she halted.

She knew what she