Eventide of the Bear (The Wild Hunt Legacy #3) by Cherise Sinclair Page B
Authors: Cherise Sinclair
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obtained permission if the master bard hadn’t spoken up. Her mother hadn’t been able to refuse someone so respected. “I finished my seven years of apprenticeship. And then…” And then her life had been destroyed. “I haven’t entertained anyone”—besides tree fairies and forest animals—“for a long time. I’m no longer a bard.” Renouncing her dream pierced her like a knife to the soul.
Wry humor lightened his lean face. “A tail does not disappear, even if not wagged. You are yet a bard.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “We postponed your judgment, aye?”
When her body tensed, she felt Minette stir. Breathe, Emma. “Yes.” Please, don’t send me back to the forest. Please.
“Why were you in the forest with no one to aid you?”
He didn’t know she’d been banished. The knowledge loosened the constriction around her throat. She chose her words carefully. “After my mother died, I had no family left. And I was…unhappy. No one cared when I left for the forest.” Truth . The town of Pine Knoll would only have cared if she’d returned. “So I was alone when I got hurt.”
He studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment. Plainly, he knew she wasn’t telling everything.
What would he decide to do with her? As guardians of Herne’s territories, the Cosantirs followed their own unique logic, making decisions to benefit the Daonain as a whole, not one lonely shifter.
She looked away. Ben stood with arms folded over his chest. Beside him, Ryder leaned one shoulder on the fireplace mantel. Both were listening.
She swallowed and returned her attention to the Cosantir.
“I will accept your explanation for now.” Calum’s measured gaze held her. “So…for risking discovery by humans, I impose this penalty: You’ll work as a bard twice a week until Lughnasadh.”
She gaped at him as if he’d awoken her early from hibernation. Sing? For others? Until the harvest festival in August? “Um, where?”
“Oh, here.” His gesture took in the whole room. His lips curved. “Did I forget to mention I own the bar?”
“You?” A Cosantir was a lowly tavern owner?
He didn’t…quite…snort. “Your singing will draw in customers during the quiet periods, which will be good for the bar. As Cosantir, I want our people to hear their history in song and story again.”
She would have an audience? A raging river of emotion surged over her banks, stealing her voice. She could only nod.
Laughter lit his eyes. “I silenced a bard. Delightful.” He tapped his fingers together. “Let’s plan for Thursdays from seven to nine. Do whatever suits you. On Sundays, I’d prefer traditional teaching songs and stories. We’ll encourage families to attend with their cubs and set the time to be from five to seven. Are we in agreement?”
“Yes.” Surely, she could do better than such a weak response. She firmed her voice. “Yes, I’d enjoy that very much.”
“Then we have an accord.” He rose, nodded at the others, and moved toward the bar with the characteristic stalk of a werecat.
Oh my Goddess. She turned to Ben and Ryder, and from the amused look on Ryder’s dark face, she knew she was grinning wider than a tipsy flower fairy. She ignored him and told Ben as if he hadn’t already heard, “I’m going to get to sing again.”
Ben grinned. “And so you are. Congratulations, li’l bear.”
Chapter Eleven
‡
“D o I have this right?” Emma asked the empty kitchen as she studied the peeled potatoes and hunk of beef in the pan. Had she rightly remembered how her mother’s cook made pot roast? Questionable. Since the Cavanaughs didn’t associate with hired help, Emma’d never been allowed in the kitchen for longer than it took to eat her afternoon snack.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t located any cookbooks in Ben’s home, which meant she was on her own in the kitchen. Scary thought. But she so, so wanted to do something nice for him.
He’d been past kind and openly pleased when the
Wry humor lightened his lean face. “A tail does not disappear, even if not wagged. You are yet a bard.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “We postponed your judgment, aye?”
When her body tensed, she felt Minette stir. Breathe, Emma. “Yes.” Please, don’t send me back to the forest. Please.
“Why were you in the forest with no one to aid you?”
He didn’t know she’d been banished. The knowledge loosened the constriction around her throat. She chose her words carefully. “After my mother died, I had no family left. And I was…unhappy. No one cared when I left for the forest.” Truth . The town of Pine Knoll would only have cared if she’d returned. “So I was alone when I got hurt.”
He studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment. Plainly, he knew she wasn’t telling everything.
What would he decide to do with her? As guardians of Herne’s territories, the Cosantirs followed their own unique logic, making decisions to benefit the Daonain as a whole, not one lonely shifter.
She looked away. Ben stood with arms folded over his chest. Beside him, Ryder leaned one shoulder on the fireplace mantel. Both were listening.
She swallowed and returned her attention to the Cosantir.
“I will accept your explanation for now.” Calum’s measured gaze held her. “So…for risking discovery by humans, I impose this penalty: You’ll work as a bard twice a week until Lughnasadh.”
She gaped at him as if he’d awoken her early from hibernation. Sing? For others? Until the harvest festival in August? “Um, where?”
“Oh, here.” His gesture took in the whole room. His lips curved. “Did I forget to mention I own the bar?”
“You?” A Cosantir was a lowly tavern owner?
He didn’t…quite…snort. “Your singing will draw in customers during the quiet periods, which will be good for the bar. As Cosantir, I want our people to hear their history in song and story again.”
She would have an audience? A raging river of emotion surged over her banks, stealing her voice. She could only nod.
Laughter lit his eyes. “I silenced a bard. Delightful.” He tapped his fingers together. “Let’s plan for Thursdays from seven to nine. Do whatever suits you. On Sundays, I’d prefer traditional teaching songs and stories. We’ll encourage families to attend with their cubs and set the time to be from five to seven. Are we in agreement?”
“Yes.” Surely, she could do better than such a weak response. She firmed her voice. “Yes, I’d enjoy that very much.”
“Then we have an accord.” He rose, nodded at the others, and moved toward the bar with the characteristic stalk of a werecat.
Oh my Goddess. She turned to Ben and Ryder, and from the amused look on Ryder’s dark face, she knew she was grinning wider than a tipsy flower fairy. She ignored him and told Ben as if he hadn’t already heard, “I’m going to get to sing again.”
Ben grinned. “And so you are. Congratulations, li’l bear.”
Chapter Eleven
‡
“D o I have this right?” Emma asked the empty kitchen as she studied the peeled potatoes and hunk of beef in the pan. Had she rightly remembered how her mother’s cook made pot roast? Questionable. Since the Cavanaughs didn’t associate with hired help, Emma’d never been allowed in the kitchen for longer than it took to eat her afternoon snack.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t located any cookbooks in Ben’s home, which meant she was on her own in the kitchen. Scary thought. But she so, so wanted to do something nice for him.
He’d been past kind and openly pleased when the
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