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When I woke later in the night, cool moonlight spilled across the room, and a slight autumn breeze drifted through the cracked windows, but I was sweating and breathless. The images of the dream I’d just had lingered, following me out of sleep. It had been no nightmare, but a dream of crystalline focus: Ryder pinning me against the wall of his stable, our wooden staffs crossed between our bodies. Only, in my dream, he’d not stepped away after he’d touched my face. Dream Ryder had said,Well done, Farrin, just as the true Ryder had that day, but in my dream, he’d then leaned down and kissed me, soft and slow, and his whole body had pressed sweetly into mine—the bulk of him against me, hot and hard and solid, enveloping me, overwhelming me, shielding me. He’d taken our staffs and thrown them aside, and then he’d lifted me into his arms, and I’d felt small in his embrace, tucked away, utterly protected. He’d lowered me gently to the floor, still kissing me, each kiss drawing me up and up toward something bright and hot, something inevitable, and then he’d pressed his leg gently between my thighs, his big hands roaming all over me, teasing me through my clothes, and then—

Suddenly I couldn’t bear to just lie there anymore, aching and remembering. I fumbled with the ties of my dress and stockings, cursing myself for not getting properly undressed before sleeping. And when my trembling fingers touched my breasts, my belly, my naked thighs, I cried out at the sheer jolting pleasure of it. I was awkward, to be sure, my fingers clumsy and nervous; my previous attempts had all ended in disaster, after all. But my dream had left me hot andwet between my thighs such as I’d never felt before, and with those images of Ryder held firmly in my mind, I touched myself all over. My hands feathering scattered lines across my belly were his hands, my finger circling between my thighs was his finger. I imagined what it would feel like to kiss him, how the roughness of his beard might rub against my skin, how the strength of him would press me down into the bed, and how intently he might watch me as I writhed beneath him—those bright blue eyes of his, that blazing, quiet intensity.

I thought of the way he’d said my name so gently—Farrin—letting the syllables fall from his mouth like rain. How would it feel, I wondered wildly, if he murmured my name against my thighs?

The thought unraveled me. My entire body tensed; a swell of heat came rushing up from my toes, drawing me up into myself, toward an ache deep inside my belly. Then the wave broke, and I let out a soft cry and came apart, pulsing quietly, the world behind my eyelids warm and black and gold. I clamped my thighs tight around my hand and moved against my fingers, chasing the gorgeous pleasure of it until the sensitive ache there told me to stop. When it subsided, my entire body tingling, I lay in the pillows and cried and laughed, my wet fingers trembling against the mattress.

So, that was it. That was what it felt like, or at least something like that. Certainly it was possible to achieve the feeling more skillfully, but I’d done it nevertheless. I’d done it on my own—with assistance from Ryder Bask, of all people.

The thought was absurd and somehow wonderful. I fell asleep half naked atop my bed, feeling wrung out and giddy, wiped clean, and more than a little ridiculous—but for the first time in what felt like years, my sleep was peaceful, long, and free of nightmares.

Chapter 10

The next morning, I awoke not knowing quite what to do with myself. There were things to be done, certainly: checking in with the household staff who’d remained at Ivyhill during our absence, visiting our tenant farmers, walking the grounds to assure myself everything was in order. And of course the Warden’s deadline loomed large in my mind. We had only a month to propose a national Order draft to the queen, and two weeks had already passed during our travels home.

But after the night I’d had, I felt both rested and restless, and carrying out tasks I’d done a thousand times suddenly felt impossible. I’d slept like the dead, yet it took me thirty minutes to wash and dress when it ordinarily took fifteen. I was fluttery all over, completely distracted, and realized when I got downstairs that I’d forgotten to make my bed. A simple thing, something I’d not once neglected for as long as I could remember, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to be irritated.

I glided into the dining room, expecting it to be empty and looking forward to enjoying a solitary breakfast with only my jittery body and provocative thoughts of Ryder for company—but shockingly, Gemma was already there. She was barefoot in her dressing gown,golden curls spilling everywhere, tapping her toes against the table leg as she scribbled on a piece of paper.

“You’re up early,” I remarked, a little more testily than was fair. “I expected you to still be in bed with Talan.”

Gemma quickly hid whatever she was writing under her napkin and began eating the fruit on her plate with relish. “I woke up thinking about a million things and didn’t want to disturb him by rustling about in bed. Poor thing, he’s exhausted. We haven’t even gotten the chance to talk about where he’s been these past few weeks, whether he’s learned anything new about Kilraith—”

“What are you writing?”

She blinked up at me, her mouth full of food. “What? I’m eating.”

“Gemma, don’t lie to me.” I sat down in the chair beside her and glanced pointedly at her napkin. “Stealth is not your specialty. I saw you hide whatever that is when I came in.”

She hesitated, chewing, then swallowed and relented, withdrawing the sheet of paper. “Fine. But you have to promise not to be angry with me.”

“I can’t promise that until I know what you’ve done.”

“I haven’tdoneanything—”

“And yet you just told me not to be angry with you.”

Gemma sighed sharply. “It’s just that I know how you’ll feel about this and can’t imagine talking about it will be productive. But I can see you won’t give up, so here it is: I’m writing to Great-Aunt Felicity. I’vebeenwriting to her since we got home from Rosewarren after fighting Kilraith.”

I stared at her. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected her to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. “You haven’t.”

“No, you’re right. I haven’t. I’m lying. I’m writing a novel.”

“Thatisa lie. You haven’t the discipline to write a novel.”

“Not believing me and then insulting me on top of it!”

I snatched the paper from her. My stomach dropped when I saw the salutation.Dear Auntie Fel…

“AuntieFel?” I read, incredulous.

“She calls me Gem, I call her Fel.” She paused, then added, a note of mirth in her voice, “It’s a concept known as nicknaming.”

“I know what nicknaming is,” I snapped. The giddy, scatterbrained strangeness of my morning vanished in an instant. “I just don’t understand why you’re talking to her.”

“Because she’s family.”

“By blood, maybe, but not in any way that actually matters.” I thrust the paper at her. “We promised each other, you and Mara and me… We promised we wouldn’t speak to any of them, not after what they said.”