Page 13 of Lore of the Tides

No, she would have to think of another tactic to find Finn.

Then maybe she would be able to sleep again.

She slid the curtains closed, the thick fabric blocking out the light completely. Syrelle must have requested the curtains specifically because he knew they would be awake every night, only sleeping during the days. Lore had not lit the oil lamp, nor the candles. She closed her eyes to the darkness. Her body longed for sleep, yet her mind was a millstone incessantly turning anxious, fretful thoughts, grinding serenity to a fine dust.

Her bed was clean and comfortable. Almosttoocomfortable; she’d never slept in a bed filled with down feathers before. She was used to straw shoved into a cloth sack, changed out a few times a year before it got moldy, if she was lucky.

Syrelle must have given her one of the best suites on the ship, but the sentiment was empty.

What was Finndryl’s room like? Was his bed also too comfortable? Or did they have him chained somewhere in the belly of the ship? Had he, too, been able to see the sunrise?

Lore flicked the curtain open to let in a bit of light and pushed off the bed.

She couldn’t sleep.

She might as well continue plotting how to reach Finndryl.

Especially with Coretha threatening him today. Lore had lost it when Coretha had considered hurting Finn to get to her. She’d actually held the grimoire! She’d been so upset, so irate, she hadn’t realized in time what that meant. She’d wasted an opportunity—maybe she could’ve kept ahold of it, continued to threaten them, make them bring her to Finn. But she hadn’t been thinking clearly, obviously, and when Coretha had ceased threatening him and left... Lore had been so relieved, she’d just placedDeeping Luneback on Syrelle’s oversize monstrosity of a desk.

And Syrelle hadn’t even threatened her! She’d just placed it down like it was a plate and she’d eaten all the tasty food off it!

Lore heaved a frustrated huff through her nose and began to pace, following a path in the rug she’d worn in days ago.

She was beginning to think she’d had a spell cast on her when she’d left Duskmere, skewing her reality. Or maybe it was when she’d entered the library. Or was it when she’d made the bargain? Had that been the true price she had to pay, for power? The alteration of her sanity? Because when she really stopped to think of every fucked-up thing about her current circumstances and that it was all because of him... Syrelle... she couldn’t fathom how she’d let herself fall for Asher.

She must have imagined everything with him...

The market that first time, when he’d introduced her to his favorite food. She remembered the taste of those dumplings. He’d enjoyed sharing his food with her, so much so that he had given her his portion. The kind way he spoke to Tarun and Libb. The swing. Laughing over godsdamned lemon tarts. That time in the woods when he taught her to use a dagger. His hand on her hip.

A traitorous tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away with a harsh motion.

“No, choose anger, Lore,” she whispered to herself, clenching her fist against her mouth to stifle a sob.

She would not cry for Asher—for Syrelle. She would not mourn his death. For that’s what it felt like. Like her friend was dead. And in his place was a shape-shifting demon from the old tales.

Had she been so desperate to be liked and accepted by one of the fae that she’d imagined the warmth in his smile? His lips against hers? The way it felt to be pressed against him, his weight pushing against her so hard—like he’d needed to feel her. Be close to her.

That last night in the Exile. His mouth on her, tasting, devouring, making her feel better than she ever had in her life.A work of art, he’d called her.

And then... that last lingering kiss by the tower. He’d clung to her, as if her lips were a source of life itself.

Lore heaved a cry. It escaped out of her, bypassing the fist pressed to her lips to stifle her sobs.

She’d really believed him. It had been a lie. Worse than a lie... deception, a cruel, abysmal trick. She’d been so stupid. Naive. Desperate.

And yet... yet it had felt so right. His lips on hers—him being on her side.

She would give anything to go back there, to the time before she learned the truth about him.

Before she ever saw Asher in his garden.

Chapter 4

Lore despised the salt-kissed trails on her cheeks. Another day, drowned in sorrow until exhaustion finally pulled her under, though her dreams were haunted by the echo of her own sobs. She was almost glad when, like clockwork, the staccato knock came at her door, jolting her awake.

Moonrise. Time to return to Syrelle’s quarters and scry forAuroradel.

Cecil brought with her a slight smile tinged with sadness, coffee with too much milk, and a dragonberry tart for Lore to eat on the way.