“Can I get Ma to get you some hot water?” she asked. Mara nodded, handing the girl the pitcher from the washstand. Then Emie was gone.
The room was, indeed, awkwardly small. There was barely room for the washstand, chamber pot, and double bed. A small stove heated the room, which was a good thing, as the bed would’ve been practically inside the hearth of a fireplace. Still, one of them would likely be too hot or too cold. He looked at Mara, who was staring at the bed in dismay. There wasn’t even another chair in the room.
“If I can make a request…”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Which surely I can’t. But if I could… can we skip the vines again, please? I’m not claustrophobic, but I think I’d rather sit on the stove and try to sleep.” He ventured a wink.
A sly smile crept onto her face. “You prefer the stove. Got it.”
He let out a laugh, turned his back on her, and plopped down on the side of the bed nearest him. He reached down to rub his sore knees and kicked off his boots. How could he ease this tension?
Just then, his eyes caught on the shackle on his left wrist. He probably could have run today, but it hadn’t even occurred to him. All he had done was stare, heart in his throat, as the wolf seemed to consider killing her… and then change its mind. Mysteries upon mysteries.
“Those wolves. Did my mother send them?” Now was as good a time as any to ask.
There was a knock at the door. She glared at him in warning. “Come in,” she called.
The innkeeper’s wife entered and brought in the steaming pitcher. Then she left with a modest nod and a bow. Aven smiled at her as she shut the door. The woman did not show any signs of having heard anything suspicious.
“Yes.” She started to wash the dried blood from her neck.
“I thought they were going to kill you.”
“So did I.”
He hesitated for a moment, hoping she would say more. Nothing came.
“Why didn’t they?” he asked. Did his voice give away more than it should?
She stopped washing and stared at her own reflection in the mirror behind the washbasin. “I wish I could explain. Honestly. But I can’t.”
He glared at her. This again? He had held nothing back from her, and she had complete control over him. Why would she possibly not tell him something as simple as this? “Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t,” she said, an edge in her voice.
He gritted his teeth, not wanting to believe her. “Did my mother call them off? Did you overpower them? I want to know what happened. I think I deserve that much. Why did they stop?”
“Oh, you’d rather they have kept going?” she spat.
“No!” he said, very certain now the falter in his voice gave away far too much. “But I know you know why. Why can’t you tell me?”
She strode toward him abruptly and fell down on one knee, not two feet away. He watched the fiery strands that had escaped from her bun fall around her face; she pushed them out of her eyes absently. She reached up to the collar of her tunic and pulled it out to the right, twisting until he could see her naked neck and shoulder.
He caught his breath.
“This. This is why. This is why they didn’t kill me and why I can’t explain.”
“But that— Did the wolves— I thought you healed yourself. Are you okay?” The wound on her shoulder was the size of his palm, scabby with bits of dried blood. It could not be more than a few days old. He had seen a few wounds in his day, but this was unlike any created by any normal weapon.
“No,” she said. “I’m not okay. Does it look okay?” She slowly covered it again.
“But that wound is fresh. Did the drunk do that and I didn’t notice?
“No.”
“When did it happen?”
“Fifteen years ago.”
He blinked now, simply not comprehending. “Why hasn’t it healed?”
“It never heals.”
They sat for a moment in silence.
“But what does it mean?”
“I told you I can’t explain. Please believe me. I truly wish I could.”
She stood, covering it again. Fifteen years? She had had a wound for fifteen years that somehow stopped her from—well, many things. He stared into her dark eyes for a long time, struggling to process what she’d said. He wanted to shake her and insist on the truth. But he was beginning to realize that this was the truth. Now, he wanted even more to find whoever had put that wound on her shoulder and give them a wound or two. How could a wound not heal for fifteen years? Unless…
It must be magic. Dark magic. Like the kind that had led to mages being feared and loathed in the first place, the kind that had brought on the Dark Days. He had thought it had all been lost in the sands of time.
Finally, he simply nodded. “I believe you. I may be a fool, but I do.”
She nodded curtly, but there was relief behind her eyes. “Go ahead and wash up.”
She moved to take off her boots. Still stunned, he obediently headed to the washbasin. He was filthy. Did he dare take off his shirt? He glanced at her. She sat with her back to him, eyes fixed on the furnace, not moving. She seemed exhausted, worn down.
Hell, she’d seen him naked the day they’d met. What did he have to hide at this point? He stripped off his shirt and began washing as best he could.
“So, no vines, then?” he asked, hoping to change the tone. He examined his grimy shirt and wondered if he should put it back on.
She turned to glance at him with a crooked smile, her eyes widening ever so slightly at the sight of him. “No vines,” she said. “I’m more in a stomach flu sort of mood today. Did you forget? The door, however, will not be so lucky.”
He glanced at the door and jumped in surprise—spiders had clustered around the locks and hinges, weaving elaborate webs across the door. So she hadn’t just been sitting still. Good thing he didn’t really want to escape from her. He didn’t want to figure a way around those buggers.
The image of the wound on her shoulder flashed through his mind again, and for the first time, fear shot through him with a cold, nervous energy. Everything else had been speculation, and at a certain point it was a waste to worry. But this was something real. Surely the same people who’d sent her were the ones who’d given her that gash. Would they give him one of his own?
The room was, indeed, awkwardly small. There was barely room for the washstand, chamber pot, and double bed. A small stove heated the room, which was a good thing, as the bed would’ve been practically inside the hearth of a fireplace. Still, one of them would likely be too hot or too cold. He looked at Mara, who was staring at the bed in dismay. There wasn’t even another chair in the room.
“If I can make a request…”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Which surely I can’t. But if I could… can we skip the vines again, please? I’m not claustrophobic, but I think I’d rather sit on the stove and try to sleep.” He ventured a wink.
A sly smile crept onto her face. “You prefer the stove. Got it.”
He let out a laugh, turned his back on her, and plopped down on the side of the bed nearest him. He reached down to rub his sore knees and kicked off his boots. How could he ease this tension?
Just then, his eyes caught on the shackle on his left wrist. He probably could have run today, but it hadn’t even occurred to him. All he had done was stare, heart in his throat, as the wolf seemed to consider killing her… and then change its mind. Mysteries upon mysteries.
“Those wolves. Did my mother send them?” Now was as good a time as any to ask.
There was a knock at the door. She glared at him in warning. “Come in,” she called.
The innkeeper’s wife entered and brought in the steaming pitcher. Then she left with a modest nod and a bow. Aven smiled at her as she shut the door. The woman did not show any signs of having heard anything suspicious.
“Yes.” She started to wash the dried blood from her neck.
“I thought they were going to kill you.”
“So did I.”
He hesitated for a moment, hoping she would say more. Nothing came.
“Why didn’t they?” he asked. Did his voice give away more than it should?
She stopped washing and stared at her own reflection in the mirror behind the washbasin. “I wish I could explain. Honestly. But I can’t.”
He glared at her. This again? He had held nothing back from her, and she had complete control over him. Why would she possibly not tell him something as simple as this? “Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t,” she said, an edge in her voice.
He gritted his teeth, not wanting to believe her. “Did my mother call them off? Did you overpower them? I want to know what happened. I think I deserve that much. Why did they stop?”
“Oh, you’d rather they have kept going?” she spat.
“No!” he said, very certain now the falter in his voice gave away far too much. “But I know you know why. Why can’t you tell me?”
She strode toward him abruptly and fell down on one knee, not two feet away. He watched the fiery strands that had escaped from her bun fall around her face; she pushed them out of her eyes absently. She reached up to the collar of her tunic and pulled it out to the right, twisting until he could see her naked neck and shoulder.
He caught his breath.
“This. This is why. This is why they didn’t kill me and why I can’t explain.”
“But that— Did the wolves— I thought you healed yourself. Are you okay?” The wound on her shoulder was the size of his palm, scabby with bits of dried blood. It could not be more than a few days old. He had seen a few wounds in his day, but this was unlike any created by any normal weapon.
“No,” she said. “I’m not okay. Does it look okay?” She slowly covered it again.
“But that wound is fresh. Did the drunk do that and I didn’t notice?
“No.”
“When did it happen?”
“Fifteen years ago.”
He blinked now, simply not comprehending. “Why hasn’t it healed?”
“It never heals.”
They sat for a moment in silence.
“But what does it mean?”
“I told you I can’t explain. Please believe me. I truly wish I could.”
She stood, covering it again. Fifteen years? She had had a wound for fifteen years that somehow stopped her from—well, many things. He stared into her dark eyes for a long time, struggling to process what she’d said. He wanted to shake her and insist on the truth. But he was beginning to realize that this was the truth. Now, he wanted even more to find whoever had put that wound on her shoulder and give them a wound or two. How could a wound not heal for fifteen years? Unless…
It must be magic. Dark magic. Like the kind that had led to mages being feared and loathed in the first place, the kind that had brought on the Dark Days. He had thought it had all been lost in the sands of time.
Finally, he simply nodded. “I believe you. I may be a fool, but I do.”
She nodded curtly, but there was relief behind her eyes. “Go ahead and wash up.”
She moved to take off her boots. Still stunned, he obediently headed to the washbasin. He was filthy. Did he dare take off his shirt? He glanced at her. She sat with her back to him, eyes fixed on the furnace, not moving. She seemed exhausted, worn down.
Hell, she’d seen him naked the day they’d met. What did he have to hide at this point? He stripped off his shirt and began washing as best he could.
“So, no vines, then?” he asked, hoping to change the tone. He examined his grimy shirt and wondered if he should put it back on.
She turned to glance at him with a crooked smile, her eyes widening ever so slightly at the sight of him. “No vines,” she said. “I’m more in a stomach flu sort of mood today. Did you forget? The door, however, will not be so lucky.”
He glanced at the door and jumped in surprise—spiders had clustered around the locks and hinges, weaving elaborate webs across the door. So she hadn’t just been sitting still. Good thing he didn’t really want to escape from her. He didn’t want to figure a way around those buggers.
The image of the wound on her shoulder flashed through his mind again, and for the first time, fear shot through him with a cold, nervous energy. Everything else had been speculation, and at a certain point it was a waste to worry. But this was something real. Surely the same people who’d sent her were the ones who’d given her that gash. Would they give him one of his own?
