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Ryon places a plate before her with bread and fruit and meat, but her hand skirts past it, to the drink. She quickly tips it to her lips, draining its contents.

The liquor burns the walls of her throat and her eyes water. She feels it slosh down past her lungs, warming her, quelling the dark places and she sighs in relief. She replaces the tankard to the table and takes up the drunk’s forgotten one. When she upends it to her mouth, the burn is less potent.

Ryon frowns. “Slow down, girl. Eat something.”

“I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” she snarls, but the words knit together in places. She isn’t sure if he hears her above the noise.

“Are you well?” he asks.

When Dawsyn turns to him, she cannot look for long. All day, he has watched her too intently. She cannot meet his eye and keep composure. It is dangerous to look.

“I’m fine,” she grunts.

“Have you had liquor before?”

“Of course,” she says, her vision swimming. “We are bountiful on the Ledge and there’s time aplenty for brewing.”

He growls again, “One day, I’ll wipe the smart from your mouth.”

“Will you, Ryon? I’d like to see you try.”

He levels her with a glare, and for a moment the room stops spinning. “Do not tempt me.”

Just then, a woman passes their table, a tray with a dozen cups and tankards balanced atop it. Dawsyn dives and swipes one, leaving the woman to scowl at her before she moves on. Dawsyn lifts this one to her lips and tips it to the ceiling, the ale now sweet. When she finishes, she runs her tongue along her bottom lip and hears Ryon sigh quietly.

“Stop that,” she says.

“Stop what?”

“Stop wanting me.”

A quiet stretches between them.

Ryon does not gape or flounder the way she wants him to. Instead, he smirks, eyeing her lips before looking away. “The liquor makes you brave.”

“I was already that.”

“It makes you arrogant, too.”

“Not a desirable trait, is it? For a woman to be arrogant? On a man, it charms, but in women, it corners us. A self-assured woman is either a harlot or embittered.”

He eyes her mouth once more. “No prizes in guessing which one you are.”

And despite herself, despite the despair she dwells in, a laugh surfaces and she finds herself bent over, her eyes scrunched.

“You’re drunk.”

“Not drunk enough,” Dawsyn says, wobbling on her stool. “I think I’ll have another.”

He sighs. “It is not your best idea.”

“And why not? There is no pine to cut in the morning. I might as well take advantage.”

“You will regret it tomorrow.”

“I already regret tomorrow,” she slurs, snaking another drink from the unsuspecting barman who passes. “And I know you will carry me out of here, if need be.”

Ryon watches, his jaw ticking as the liquor passes through her lips, like he wants to hurl it away from her. “You assume too much.”