Page 47

It didn’t mean anything—Clover simply responded to me, but she was half asleep, so her tone was distracted and warm. She certainly wasn’t dreaming about me.

Besides, Clover is thoroughly taken with Lawrence. I would be the worst sort of fool to have these thoughts about a woman with that little sense.

The lady-in-waiting is abnormally quiet this morning, and I shoot her a stern look. “Were you drinking last night?”

She returns my look with a venomous one of her own. “I don’t drink.”

“Did you start a bar fight?” I can’t help but ask, not about to pass up the opportunity to needle her for once.

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong with you?”

“Nightmare,” she mutters.

I pause in the street. “Were you afraid in the inn? Did someone bother you?”

Suddenly, I’m burdened with guilt for a different reason. Like it or not, Clover is my responsibility. I shouldn’t have let her go off alone just because I was sick of dealing with her.

She rolls her eyes and continues walking.

“From now on, you must stay with the group.”

Testily, Clover answers, “From now on, you must remember I don’t answer to you.”

“Why did you agree to stay if you so loathe to be here?”

“Why did you ask me to stay if you don’t want to deal with me?” she counters.

We stare at each other, neither of us relenting. Slowly, my irritation turns to grudging concern.

The delicate skin under Clover’s eyes is dark, and her cheeks are pale. Her eyes still spark with spirit, but other than that, she looks awful.

“Are you all right?” I reluctantly ask.

She shoves a strand of hair behind her ear, looking away. “I told you—it was a bad night.”

“Are you ill?”

She looks back at me, narrowing her eyes. “Something is certainly wrong with me.”

“Stay in the barrack’s infirmary for a few days. You may rejoin us when we return from the guard post.”

Suddenly, a trickle of doubt works its way through my veins. I was so confident Clover wasn’t a sorceress, but she looks absolutely terrible.

Could she have been practicing last night? Is that the reason she looks so rough?

“I’m fine,” she says, oblivious to my wandering thoughts as she continues down the street. “I just didn’t get enough sleep.”

“But you just said—”

“Ignore what I said.”

I would argue with her further, but a crowd stands outside the guards’ barracks when we arrive—and an unusual one at that.

“Have you ever seen so many Woodmore elves in a northern village?” I ask Clover, momentarily forgetting we’re at odds.

“I think they’re here to see some old ruin.” She stretches her neck from side to side, looking like she’s still trying to wake up. “Something about nature in itspurestform.”