and looked into the fire again. “It’s the Low Forest that I fear for them the most. I don’t know that the faeries would be any more merciful than humans.”
She recalled Cinderfell, ignoring the twisting sensation at her core. Poor Sable, who’d had to live with either possibility that her grandchildren might’ve been imprisoned and tortured by the Fair Folk, or made a prize kill by humans. By someone like Sinclair.
“So, have you been unable to track their scent, then?” Lilac spoke more hopefully than she felt. “Perhaps they decided to leave Brocéliande altogether.”
“Track their scent?” Sable’s silver brows lifted in understanding. “Oh. Oh, you thought… I’m not the shapeshifter, dear.” She reddened but pressed hand against her chest as if relieved by the news herself. “Oh, heavens no. That was Luzio.”
“But aren’t you… You aren’t a shifter?”
Before Sable could open her mouth, a faint shuffling noise interrupted her. As it grew louder, Jeanare stumbled into the kitchen from the west wing entryway. Irises glazed over, he smiled sleepily before stooping into a steep curtsy before his wife, nearly toppling all the way to the floor. Then, he continued across the kitchen, the gathering room, and into what Lilac assumed was the east wing.
“He’ll be all right, won’t he?” Lilac asked.
“I’m sure he will,” Sable answered, retreating to the cupboards with a sigh. “Our bedroom is in that general direction, so he’s at least on the right track. It’s nothing I haven’t seen after he’s indulged himself with his favorite brandy, I’ll tell you that much.”
Surprising herself, Lilac giggled.
“So sure of being mortal, are we?”
Both women jumped. Garin stood against the wing door frame, arms folded neatly over his chest. Seeming to have recovered from the sudden seriousness of doing away with Renald, he threw Sable a half smirk.
“Pardon?”
“You’d have to have at least a smidgeon of creature blood in your veins in order to carry his child.”
“I’m human, at least compared to the likes of you, vampire,” Sable shot back. “And just so you know, humans and shifters can produce offspring. The creatures are more or less mortals themselves, except for those couple unfortunate nights a month.” At Lilac’s bewildered expression, she scowled. “Oh, I don’t think either of you are in any position to speak ill of my and Luzio’s relationship.”
In effort to change the subject, she straightened and swung open the nearest cupboard, withdrawing a loaf-sized wicker basket. She showed it to Lilac with an apologetic smile. Its contents sat snugly wrapped in layers of cheesecloth. “It’s not much.”
“Why, thank you. What is it?” Lilac eyed it warily.
“Some provision for your journey, dear. Your friend there will have to seek nourishment elsewhere; he should be full for now, anyway” she muttered, regarding him bleakly. “But this should last you on your journey back to the castle. For your coronation, which you will be attending.”
“Speaking of,” Garin said. “We’ll need to get going. The sun’s set.” He gestured at the nearest window, where the last rays of sun had disappeared below the horizon of treetops.
Sable nodded and motioned to the door down the hallway. “Very well, then. After you.”
Lilac led the way to the front room, followed closely by Garin and then their hostess, who still carried the basket. Though she did her best to look away from the bloodied mess on the floor while they approached the entryway, she couldn’t help but peek. Besides, her father’s friend’s death had been her decision. She had to face that.
Lips a mottled blue, his corpse lay crumpled on the floor. A bit of blood pooled under each cleanly slit wrist. What little amount of relief she had left washed over her; Garin had spared Sable a repeat of the gruesome dismemberment at Sinclair’s campsite. Lilac felt a light warmth prickling her neck and spun; trailing her, Garin stalked into the room, quietly observing her. He was probably trying to gague her reaction. Despite the shudder that shook her shoulders, she gave him a reassuring grin.
He passed her and scooped up Renald’s body as if the dead weight of the built Breton soldier was nothing at all. He turned to Sable, inadvertently smacking the corpse’s head against the wall. “Do you happen to have an older pile of hay or straw stubble laying around out there?”
“Yes,” Sable replied reluctantly. “Just out back.”
“Thank you, most gracious madame.” Without warning, he reached over and slid a hand into Lilac’s sack, grinning as he removed it just as quickly, ignoring her suspicious glower. “I’ll