Heir to the Shadows

came to see me this afternoon," he said slowly, trying to understand the chill emanating from Jaenelle. "She thinks Tersa's upset about something, so I wanted to look in on her."
    Jaenelle's sapphire eyes were as deep and still as a bottomless lake. "Don't push where you're not welcome, High Lord," Witch said.
    He wondered if she knew how much her eyes revealed. "You'd prefer I not see her?" he asked respectfully.
    Her eyes changed. "See her if you like," his daughter replied. "But don't invade her privacy."
    "There's no wine." Tersa opened and closed cupboards, looking more and more confused. "The woman didn't buy the wine. She always buys a bottle of wine on fourth-day so it will be here for you. She didn't buy the wine, and tomorrow I was going to draw a picture of my garden and show it to you, but third-day's gone and I don't know where I put it."
    Saetan sat at the pine kitchen table, his body saturated with sorrow until it felt too heavy to move. He'd joked about being predictable. He hadn't realized that his predictability was one of Tersa's touchstones, a means by which she separated the days. Jaenelle had known and had let him come to learn the lesson for himself.
    With his hands braced on the table, he pushed himself up from the chair. Every movement was an effort, but he reached Tersa, who was still opening cupboards and muttering, seated her at the table, put a kettle on the stove, and, after a little exploring in the cupboards, made them both a cup of chamomile tea.
    As he put the cup in front of her, he brushed the tangled black hair away from her face. He couldn't remember a time when Tersa's hair didn't look as if she'd washed it and let it dry in the wind, as if her fingers were the only comb it had ever known. He suspected it wasn't madness but intensity that made her indifferent. And he wondered if that wasn't one of the reasons, when he'd finally agreed to that contract with the Hayllian Hourglass to sire a child, that he'd chosen Tersa, who wa's already broken, already teetering on the edge of madness. He'd spent over an hour brushing her hair that first night. He'd brushed her hair every night of the week he'd bedded her, enjoying the feel of it between his fingers, the gentle pull of the brush.
    Now, sitting across from her, his hands around the mug, he said, "I came early, Tersa. You didn't lose third-day. This is second-day."
    Tersa frowned. "Second-day? You don't come on second-day."
    "I wanted to talk to you. I didn't want to wait until fourth-day. I'll come back on fourth-day to see your drawing."
    Some of the confusion left her gold eyes. She sipped her tea.
    The pine table was empty except for a small azure vase holding three red roses.
    Tersa gently touched the petals. "The boy picked these for me."
    "Which boy is that?" Saetan said quietly.
    "Mikal. Sylvia's boy. He comes to visit. Did she tell you?"
    "I thought you might mean Daemon."
    Tersa snorted. "Daemon's not a boy now. Besides, he's far away." Her eyes became clouded, farseeing. "And the island has no flowers."
    "But you call Mikal Daemon."
    Tersa shrugged. "Sometimes it's nice to pretend that I'm telling him stories. Jaenelle says it's all right to pretend."
    A cold finger whispered down his spine. "You've told Jaenelle about Daemon?"
    "Of course not," Tersa said irritably. "She's not ready to know about him. All the threads are not yet in place."
    "What threads—"
    "The lover is the father's mirror. The brother stands between. The mirror spins, spins, spins. Blood. So much blood. He clings to the island of maybe. The bridge will have to rise from the sea. The threads are not yet in place."
    "Tersa, where is Daemon?"
    Tersa blinked, drew a shuddering breath. She stared at him, frowning. "The boy's name is Mikal."
    He wanted to shout at her, Where's my son? Why hasn't he gone to the Keep or come through one of the Gates? What's he waiting for? Useless to shout at her. She couldn't translate what she'd seen any better than she had. One thing he did understand. All the threads were not yet in place. Until they were, all he could do was wait.
    "What are the sticks for, Tersa?"
    "Sticks?" Tersa looked at the basket of sticks in the corner of the kitchen. "They have no purpose." She shrugged. "Kindling?"
    She withdrew from him, exhausted by the effort of keep-nig the stones of reality and madness from grinding her soul.
    "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked, preparing to leave.
    Tersa hesitated. "It would anger