The second day went only marginally better. By twilight, Conrì announced that the 'cold' part of the curse had been shed. On the other hand, he admitted, the Change would be a good bit more difficult, as Allaidh's personality was exceedingly wolfish.

"If you can't put your temper from mind, I can't do anything for you. It's twisting the magic around, and making it impossible for me to even see the strands, much less unravel them."

Watching the man stalk from the hall—the best room, the Prince had decided, for potentially dangerous magic, as it was largely empty, vast, and wasn't too near the magical texts held in the library—Conrì silently repeated his conclusion. The children had been dead on when they chose a wolf for the mage and tonight the wolf was particularly snappish. Temper had flickered in his eyes throughout the day, and occasionally raised his hackles. The inescapable use of sìthiche magic, which never sat easily on human shoulders and often stung when applied, had only furthered the anger simmering within him, until, by the time he Changed back, Conrì could do nothing else than send him away for the evening, with instructions to come back with a cool and clear mind the next day—a command, he suspected, that only irritated the man that much more.

Holding a fist-sized ball of fire burning at head-level was a trick used by master mages, usually given to hotheaded youngsters with more power than control. At the moment, Allaidh thought, the description fit. Five or six of the balls floated around the empty room, directed into patterns, occasionally dividing to spawn more spheres of flame, directed from where he sat, leaning against the wall, controlling them deftly.

It was relaxing, in its own way. The controlled exercising of power, like playing chess, or chopping wood. The anger that was currently curling through his bloodstream, fueled, if he allowed himself to be honest, by pain, was being put to good use. Fire in this form wasn't destructive; energy was the fuel, not air and wood. Without thinking much of it, he brought one close again, forced it to compact, and began building a crystal around the burning ember. Layer after layer of clear particles gathered from the air itself assembled and coalesced, until a tear-shaped jewel hovered there, gleaming with internal fire. Looking at it critically for a moment, Allaidh decided it passed muster, and pocketed it—when this mess was over, he would have it set in silver, and drape it around her neck himself. Bringing another ball close, to repeat the process, he considered the latest developments.

Móra didn't believe him when he told her the truth. Clinically, he studied the twist of pain that tightened bands of iron around his chest. Still contained in their balls, the flames flickered madly, fighting for freedom. Ruthlessly, he quashed the reactions. Fine. He could live with her disbelief, he could even combat it—simply repeat the truth enough, and eventually, she would accept it.

And there was the problem. He didn't have 'eventually'. He had, at most, a sennight. Probably less, to convince her that he was truthful, and that he was in love with her. A task made none too easy by her stubborn personality and her antipathy towards men.

With a gesture, he extinguished the little lights that floated around his sanctuary, and rose with a fluid motion. She would be in the library, and if not there, bed.

Was she letting what was behind color what was now? She sat and she brooded. Her father and brothers had used her power from the first to further themselves—it had manifested, before training, as a talent for finding what had been lost. She had made the mistake of thinking that they loved her for herself, instead of as a tool—that mistake was corrected very early. Roarke had come when she was ten, and effectively bought her from them, before whisking her back to the Northern Highlands. He'd been the first man she'd trusted after her father, and perhaps the only. Did she trust Allaidh?

Yes. With her body, certainly, and perhaps even with her life—she didn't doubt he would protect her at any cost. Hadn't he taken the brunt of the sìthiche curses, after all? But…with her emotions?

With her (she winced at the thought—she, who had always been particularly skeptical of the thing poets called love) heart?

No, not completely. But a part of her, steadily growing in size and strength, desperately wanted to.

It wasn't sound that alerted her to his presence, or the scent of mage-magic. It was the whisper of air, the prickling sense of alertness that always invaded her body when he was near, and the weight of his eyes. She looked up, into those eyes, wary of the hardness that would have, if she'd been looking closely enough, warned her yesterday that he had been spoiling for a fight. There was, she noted with relief, none of it.

"Móra, you work much too hard," Allaidh said, rounding the corner of her desk. Taking her hands, ignoring the little tugs with which she sought their freedom, he drew her up, and led her away from the desk.

"Allaidh—"

"Hush. You've bruises beneath your eyes."

He led her to their bedroom, still shared despite the events of the past several days. Deftly, he drew her in, shut and locked the door behind her, the key sliding into one deep pocket. Still blinking with shock, she found herself seated on the bed, her clothes being removed and neatly folded, her long hair being brushed out of the braid she'd put it in that morning. A coil of heat tightened in her belly, but for the most part, curiosity was her leading concern. He'd been gentle before, but no one in recent memory had taken care of her like this. It was…pleasant.

Hard, callous-roughened hands slid lightly over her shoulders, drew her back into the softness of sheets and pillows. He joined her in bed, looping his arms around her and settling her back against him so that his warmth surrounded her.

"Go to sleep," was murmured in her ear, one of his hands lifting to stroke soothingly along her side, from ribcage to the curve of her hip. "You're exhausted."

And, to her surprise, she did sleep, until dawn threatened and the warmth behind her shifted away. Still mostly asleep, she mumbled a protest, and followed.

"No, love. Go back to sleep."

She groped, and found one of his hands. "Come back to bed."

"I would, if it was possible. But I doubt you would appreciate a wolf in your bed." The heat and smell of sìthiche power burned, and the hand she held became a paw. Gently but insistently, it pulled away. For a moment, a warm, dry, canine nose pushed against that hand, and his tongue curled out to swipe once along her palm.

Then he was gone.