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“What?”

But the mage slaps her hands down over Dawsyn’s wounds and the burst of pain makes Dawsyn buck. Light blinds her, the room suddenly full of it. It is absorbed by everything it touches, and Dawsyn’s eyes turn immediately to water. She crushes her eyelids together and curses.

When the ringing in her ears fades and the glare beyond her eyelids turns dark, Dawsyn blinks slowly, carefully. The mage is already backing toward the door, the long braid of her hair swaying violently.

“I am glad you are alive, Dawsyn Sabar,” she says. “Though I doubt you will remain so for long.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR

Dawsyn dresses mechanically, relieved when she finds that her shoulders no longer protest. Her stomach is now settled, her head clear of its relentless pounding. She cannot deny the mage’s usefulness even if her very proximity makes Dawsyn’s skin crawl.

When she descends the narrow stairwell of the inn, she feels renewed. She is not weary or hungry. She is weightless. The ailments that burdened her existence came to feel a part of her, like a pulse. Now, they are gone. The calluses on her palms remain but do not smart when she flexes her fingers. Her feet do not pinch inward with each step and she does not recoil from their ache. She curses the mage, for she cannot dislike her after this.

The hallway is empty when Dawsyn steps into it, but she hears voices coming from the dining room. Salem holds up the bar, Esra beside him. There is not a pair in the world as contrasting as them.

“You owe me from the last delivery, you decrepit goat!”

“Aye, but yeh threw up a free lunch across me bar last night and scared a half-dozen women away, so I’d say we’re even,” Salem grunts, downing his liquor.

“What do you care if the women stay or go? This is no brothel.”

“Where the women go, the men will surely be, and the men ain’t got the brains to stop drinkin’ when the night wears on. It’s called business, yeh dowdy twit.”

“I’ve never been dowdy a day in my life, old man,” scoffs Esra.

“Ha! Me dead grandmother wears fancier bloomers in her grave.”

“How would you know? You’ve not had the pleasure of knowing my bloomers.”

Salem slams his glass down on the bar. “Thank the Chasm!”

“And you never will, in fact. I elect to wear none.”

Salem grimaces. “If yer tackle comes anywhere near me barstools beneath that skirt, I’ll–”

Dawsyn chooses that moment to clear her throat, and the pair turn on their stools.

“Miss Dawsyn! Come in, come in. I’ll fix yeh a feed.”

“Thank you,” Dawsyn says quietly, giving Esra a pointed smile.

He was in the middle of lifting his skirts in Salem’s direction, but now, he lowers them, a small blush christening his wide face. “Dawsyn, darling! Good morning!”

“Good morning,” she returns, taking up Salem’s abandoned seat.

“Ry told us you would be rather woeful company today. Actually, he threatened to cut me if I came to bother you, and I told him not to threaten me with a good time. Are you ill?” Esra’s ruby-red lips purse in overdone concern.

“I drank liquor yesterday evening.”

“I see. The devil’s blood. And tell me, my love, did you dip your bosom into the town square fountain? No shame in it if you did – it’s whatIwould do if I were as well endowed.”

The laugh bursts from her throat, even while she frowns at him. “You are the most bewildering human I’ve ever met.”

“It is my aim in life to leave an impression and I don’t much care for ensuring it be a good one.”

Dawsyn snorts. “I imagine that to be true.”

“So, no public exhibitionism? No arson? No relations with a certain fake woodsman?”