Because she still felt just a little fragile, she got out of bed, pulled on his torn shirt. “I’m going to— Wait. You said you figured out why we went. Has Anni?”

“She might have, as she’s no idiot, but I steered her in another direction. I suggested the two of you’d gone so he could find her a new dress, maybe some earrings. A present.”

“Good thinking.”

“It mollified her, as did the half a torturous hour she spent in the little shop that sells various trinkets.”

“I’d say I owe you for that, but considering recent activities, I claim paid in full. I’m going to grab a shower, then head down to finish the amends by helping with something domestic.”

When he made no move to join her, she went into the bathroom, closed the door.

Closed her eyes.

He’d shaken everything inside her, she realized. Shaken it, tossed it in the air so it fell back in an order she didn’t understand.

She’d figure it out, she assured herself. Whatever the puzzle, the problem, the code, she figured it out eventually.

She took off the shirt, realized it smelled of both of them, a mix of them. A blend.

And folding it onto the counter, she felt ridiculous because she knew she had no intention of tossing it away.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

After days of quiet, the routine of training and diving, Doyle calculated it was time, past time, to mix things up. He tracked Bran down in the tower, stood a moment watching as his friend wrote in the thick spell book.

It wasn’t all whirlwinds and calling the lightning, he thought. Some of magick was—well—toil and trouble, and more was, apparently, as pedestrian as pen and paper.

Bran set the pen down, studied what he’d written. Then he laid his hand on the page. Light flashed, held. Dissolved.

And a great deal, Doyle considered, was sheer and stunning power.

“Got a minute?” he asked when Bran glanced over.

“I do now. Things must be written down and the magicks sealed. For ourselves, and for those who come after.”

Curious, Doyle walked over to see what Bran had written.

“In the old tongue.”

“The language of my blood—and yours. Of the old gods, of the old powers.”

“A kind of locator spell,” Doyle said, translating. “Using the coat of arms as . . . a homing device.”

“More or less. Let’s have some tea.” He rose, leaving the book open, and walked over to plug in an electric kettle.

“You don’t need electricity and teapots.”

“Well now, the gods help those who help themselves, we could say. No point in being lazy about basic practicalities.”

“Others would.”

“And have. It’s not how I was taught. The spell,” Bran said, winding back to it as he measured tea leaves. “I thought of what happened to Riley, and again what she and Sawyer did. So this will find any of us who might become separated. I’ve given it some work since Annika and Sawyer were taken in Capri, but other matters bumped ahead of it until now.”

“Because we’ve had a little more time on our hands in the last few days.”

“For as long as it lasts. Impatient?”

“Brother, I may have all the time in the world, but if this is the time—and we all believe it is—we shouldn’t waste it.”

“I’ll agree, though I’ll tell you it’s been pleasant having Sasha settle in here, have that time to paint without being plagued day and night with visions.”

He made the tea, offered Doyle a mug. Setting his own aside, he locked the spell book. “Let’s sit so you can tell me what you have in mind.”

“Sawyer’s huddled up with Sasha in the other tower.”

“Working on the design for the ring, yes.” Bran smiled and sat back. And reading the smile, Doyle shrugged.

“I respect the women without qualifications. I’m more used to talking war with men.”

“There are none of us, put together, who has the experience in battle you do.”

Though he’d have said the same once, Doyle shook his head. “That doesn’t fly, not now. But putting that and gender equality aside—”

“Sometimes a man must talk to a man. And a woman to her own.”

“It’s no great change. The exploration of underwater caves has given us nothing but locations to cross off.”

“Agreed. We found the same in Corfu and Capri.”

“It feels different here.” Restless, Doyle glanced toward the window. “I don’t know if it’s my own feelings about being here, or if it is different.”

“Would you go back?” Bran asked. “It’s something I’ve wondered. Would you, knowing you couldn’t save your brother then, do differently if you could go back to that day?”

“Not try? Sure I’d have a normal life span, but what measure of life would it be, knowing I’d done nothing for him, and all for myself? I’ve had more than enough time to resolve I did all I could. I failed, and that will never leave me, but I did all I could do, and would do it again.”

Doyle studied his tea, dark and strong. “You wonder why I haven’t asked Sawyer to take me back so I could kill the witch before she harmed him—or try. Sawyer would, as there’s little he wouldn’t do for a friend. I’ll ask you, wizard, could I change the fates?”

“I don’t know, but I know this. You might save one brother and lose another. Or start a war that takes the lives of thousands. The past, to my mind, isn’t to be meddled with. The gods themselves let it lie.”