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“I’d say you are.”

The memory of her mouth on his sits between them, refusing to be ignored. She remembers throwing her body into his lap and grimaces at her complete lack of wits. Did she abandon all sense in the night?

She shifts her weight to the side of the cot, and her entire being protests. She groans quietly into her hands. “Why does my head feel like it has been cleaved?”

“It’s the liquor,” Ryon tells her. “I told you, you’d regret it.”

She feels saliva flood her mouth, her stomach revolts and she launches from the cot. Her knees slam to the wooden floor in time for her to violently heave into a small basin beneath the window.

“That’s also the liquor.”

Dawsyn spits bile. “So helpful.”

She hears the sound of his boots stepping forward, feels the air shift behind her as he lowers. His hands reach to sweep her hair away from where it dangles in her face and his breath is suddenly warming her neck.

“I think it best that we keep our distance from each other from now on. Lest your control slip and you throw yourself at me again.”

She barks out a laugh, but the effect is lessened by the scratching sound of her voice. “Let’s not pretend I’m the one who struggles with their control.”

“I’m not pretending,” he growls. “I’d wager my control is at its tipping point. I’m asking you not to push it.”

“I will not be pushing much of anything today,” Dawsyn mumbles, her stomach beginning to turn over once more.

Ryon sighs and waits for the sounds of her retching to subside. When she is done, she sits back, pulling her borrowed dress over her knees. She has begun to shiver despite the roaring hearth.

“The mage is here at the inn. I will call for her to visit with you. She will help.”

“I do not want amage. How do I know she will not turn me into a toad?”

He chuckles quietly. “If she tries, you can throw your ax at her.”

His fingers sweep across the back of her neck one final time, the skin tingling where he touches. Then he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Dawsyn rises warily and gathers the basin to her. She will find a washroom, empty it, clean it, and clean herself, too.

The hall is so narrow that she imagines Ryon’s shoulders must brush either side when he walks through. She finds its end and opens the door to the washroom – a small, scratched mirror; a large basin; and a line of buckets with fresh water. First, she empties the sullied basin she carries and then tips fresh water inside to rinse it.

The tiny, circular mirror reflects her face and nothing more, but what she sees is ghastly. She is haggard, pale. Her hair hangs in tangles down to her chest. Her palms feel gritty, the way they feel after she sands timber.

She pulls the sleeves from her shoulders, slipping the dress down her body and kicking it into a corner. She does away with her slip and undergarments and steps back to look upon the parts of her she can see reflected. The wounds on her shoulders are now yellow, the bruises aging, but the muscles and tendons still feel raw, much abused. The gashes have knitted, but the gaps between stitches still weep and a nasty odor exudes.

Her skin looks especially white against her black hair, gently sloping away over the swells of her breasts before hugging her ribs too tightly, down to her stomach and over her hips, which cut sharply. She has lost valuable weight in her descent to reach Terrsaw and for a moment she worries about her rations, about whether she can sustain what remains of her before she weakens. But she has no need for rationing anymore. The forests here will feed her endlessly and she will no longer scrape and forage for every bite and fight to keep it.

She collects a graying cloth from a hook and wets it in an icy bucket, lathering her body with it. The water bubbles and a pleasant fragrance reaches her, ridding her nose of the smell of bile. She washes herself slowly, meticulously, marveling at the slippery feel of her skin, at the way the grime slips easily away with each run of the cloth. She is shivering in earnest by the time she is satisfied, her hair dripping down her back, but there is a warm hearth to return to, nowhere else she needs to go, and the thought is freeing.

A towel – no more than a rag – hangs behind the door and she wraps it around her, just in time for the door to bang open, a woman on the other side.

“You look like you’ve seen hell.” The woman looks her over without bothering with subtlety. She lingers over Dawsyn’s bare legs. “Pretty but gaunt.”

“You must be the mage.” Dawsyn’s tone is low, deadly.

The woman nods. She is beautiful – something Dawsyn did not expect. Her blonde hair is braided down her back, her plain, gray cloak hovering an inch from the floor. Her eyes are large, dominating, turning up to her temples like an animal. Dawsyn almost expects her teeth to be pointed, dripping gore. She enters and shuts the door behind her, the small, dank room now full of the two of them with little space in between.

“Dawsyn, isn’t it? Drop the cloth, Dawsyn.”

Dawsyn almost laughs. Almost. “I’m afraid I’m not so easily persuaded.”

“Do not flatter yourself, sweet. I need to see the damage.”