Conrì's first attempt at unraveling the curses that held Allaidh was an unmitigated disaster, which resulted in the Prince swearing at length in the Old Language, the wolf watching quietly, sitting with stoic patience even as wild magic singed him ineffectually. When the sun finally sank, he stood as a man, shaking off the discomfort with a shrug of his shoulders, shaking his head to try to relieve the ringing headache.

Disgust stamped in his eyes, the Sìthiche Prince waved him away, and mumbled something about 'phytoplankton'—whatever that might be. Frustrated, dismayed, Allaidh took advantage of Conrì's dismissal, and went to hunt up Móra.

The library was where he found her, naturally, leaning over a tome and jotting down notes in a feminine hand. She glanced up at his approach, just long enough for her green eyes to narrow warningly and her pointed little chin to rise slightly. He let an arrogant eyebrow rise, challenging the warning. Then her eyes dropped down, and he waited, content to stare at the top of her head until she at last looked up, knowing she felt his gaze, all the while.

"What do you want?" she finally demanded, breaking the silent battle of wills.

"Oh, well, what could I possibly want from you?" he inquired sardonically, hitching a hip on the edge of her desk.

Color rose to her cheeks even as her lips tightened. "I have no idea, I'm sure."

"You left without letting me explain."

Fury, fresh and violent, jumped to her eyes. "You can't have expected me to stay, not when you deliberately concealed the key to my freedom—"

"No, Móra, I didn't expect you to stay," he growled, "I wasn't even going to ask you to."

"Just hold me here against my will, then!" she spat back, springing to her feet.

He stood as well. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her, to rage out his reason to her, let them steal the acidic words from her mouth. They would shock her, he knew, those three little words—just as he knew he could count on one hand the number of people who had actually given her the love she'd fought for and been denied until she'd finally stopped looking. It was almost tempting, to see her eyes go wide, her soft mouth to drop open as though to protest it. But just as he knew they would stun her, he knew they were the last words she'd ever believe, and the surest way to lose her again.

So he choked them back, let his eyes go shuttered. "I expected you to give me a chance to explain."

"Explain away that you've been hoarding away a spell that could help me? What do you think could possibly explain that?"

"I found it two nights before you left," he said, voice icily distant and eminently reasonable. "One night, I took for myself. You would have had your freedom the moment the sun went down the second night, and an explanation to go with it."

"I don't believe you." She enunciated the words carefully, her voice just as far away as his.

It was the last thing he'd been expecting—anger, yes, irritation, certainly. He'd almost hoped for shock, and consternation wouldn't have displeased him. But outright disbelief…

How could he reply to that?

"You—you think I would lie to you? About that?" He didn't lie—ever. There was no point, not when simply saying nothing was easier and created no traps.

Except, it seemed, when it did.

"Yes, I think you would lie, if it suited your purposes. I find myself wondering what else you may have lied about." She watched as what little color had been in his face drained away, leaving his silvered gold eyes dark and bright with fury in his face.

"Damn you, Móra, for letting the past blind you to the present," Allaidh snarled, and stalked away.