Page 15

15

Foolish Comfort

Anya

T he day’s journey took us over undulating hills, across modest valleys, through orchards and crop fields, and past livestock pastures. Though our path paralleled the Wend, the road and river were distant from each other, the water a mere strip of reflective blue to our right. Given what I’d seen in the Mirrors, I was glad it hadn’t swung nearer to the High Road so far—it was hard enough being in such close proximity to the man Fated to drown me, even without the nearness of water.

After our long morning pressed together atop Briar, Idris and I took turns walking for the remainder of the day. He didn’t seem to feel any particular way about riding together, but the closeness had grated on me—not just due to the normal discomfort of sitting in a cramped saddle for a long stretch of time, but the awful pleasantness of his strong body behind me.

I’d spent the entire time in that saddle cursing the Fates for making my would-be killer in any way alluring, and cursing myself for appreciating the gentle rocking of his armor-clad chest against my back and his hips against the base of my spine. It was ludicrous of me to fixate on the sensation, but it was impossible not to when my ass was pressed against him, and his heartbeat thudded against my magic in a steady rhythm.

I’d had to put some distance between us—so when he told me I couldn’t walk, I’d gotten mad. The fact that he hadn’t lost his temper but instead insisted on being a gentleman had only made me angrier. How dare he complicate matters by being nice ? I still couldn’t reconcile the man I’d seen in my Mirror of Death with the man I’d teased at the Possum, who traveled with me now.

Flustered was at the bottom of the list of things I should’ve been feeling. I should’ve felt heartbroken by Remy’s callous rejection. I should’ve been terrified of the uncertainty ahead. I should’ve felt threatened by Idris. Yet there I was, enjoying Idris’s presence in spite of it all. His calm and capable attitude throughout the aftermath of the attack and up through our first day of travel had been comforting in a way Remy had never been.

My would-be killer, a comfort .

Oh , I was frustrated with myself. I was not a frivolous woman, nor a romantic one, but apparently my foolishness made up for my lack of more whimsical flaws.

Walking was the only way I could escape my own raging stupidity, so walk, I had, until my feet ached and blisters formed. Then Idris—annoyingly astute—had suggested he walk while I ride. And so our mostly-silent travels had unfolded, switching places atop Briar until the sun sat low and a thick fog clung to the ground.

We made camp just as the light was fading, setting up in a stand of alders not far from a shallow offshoot of the Wend. While Idris fed and watered Briar, I wandered north along the stream in search of a private place to wash up. This was the farthest from Waldron I’d ever been, and each step felt both mundane and monumental.

Perhaps the shock of last night was making me sentimental; I wasn’t sure the full reality of the gore I’d witnessed had fully sunk in yet.

With my pack slung over one shoulder, I found a mossy bank out of sight but still within hearing distance of Idris’s soft mutterings. As I plunked down on the spongey ground, tugging off my boots, I lifted my magic in his direction, curious to hear what Idris had to say to our intrepid mount.

It turned out to be sweet nothings, mostly: about the shine of Briar’s coat, the softness of his nose, his amiable demeanor, and how well he stood to be untacked and have the stones picked out of his feet. The one-sided conversation was dangerously endearing, so I plunged my feet into the icy stream and started scrubbing.

The night was fully upon us when I returned to camp refreshed and wearing one of the spare outfits Hattie had provided, a practical gray-blue woolen tunic with heavy underskirts. I sat on a log by the fire Idris had built, allowing the flames to banish the damp chill from my skin. Two small pots were nestled in the coals, one simmering with rose hips in water and the other burbling the warm aroma of spiced porridge and mushrooms. He’d already laid out our bedrolls, too; I noted that they were a respectful distance apart, one on either side of the fire.

Nothing was as homey as the Possum, but compared to a prisoner caravan, this…wasn’t bad.

“Tea?” Idris asked, not looking at me as he crouched close to the fire and stirred the porridge. “You’re welcome to help yourself.”

So my future killer was thoughtful, too. Great .

A pair of mugs rested on the other end of the log, a sprig of mint inside each. I lifted the simmering pot off the fire and tipped it over one mug, then the other, spilling a bit as I clumsily poured the boiling water over the leaves. When the rose hips sloshed too hard into the second mug, it wobbled unsteadily, and I reached out to catch it before it fell—only to pour the boiling water directly onto my hand.

White-hot pain blazed over my skin, and I drew back, letting the mug and pot fall to the dirt as I yowled. “Fuck!”

Idris rose to his full height in an instant, startled by my outburst.

The back of my hand was already bright red, a streak of welts forming across my knuckles. I shook it as if that would dispel the sting, hissing through my teeth.

“You alright?” Idris asked, but I was already stomping off toward the stream to plunge my inflamed skin into the cold water.

By the time I got back, Idris had dealt with the upturned mug and laid out a meager medical kit. He was still standing as I walked up, concern etched into his features.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

“It’s fine.” I cringed.

He took a step closer. “May I see?”

I held out my hand, and he winced. “Here—” He swiveled toward the supplies, but I didn’t want his help.

“I can do it,” I interrupted.

He wavered. “I know you can , but—”

“I will do it,” I amended. “Sorry about the tea.”

He considered me for a moment. We stood a full stride apart, but given his height, he practically loomed over me. He’d removed his breastplate, weapons, and cloak. The laces at the collar of his shirt were undone, revealing the dark ring of his Oath tattoo and the harshly etched lines of his upper pecs.

The light of the fire cast shadows on the side of his face, illuminating the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and catching on the vertical crease that formed between his eyebrows. He looked, for a moment, like he might argue—then his expression smoothed, becoming almost indifferent as he gestured at the remaining mug. “You can have it,” he said, then went back to stirring the porridge.

Air gusted out of my lungs, and I plopped onto the log beside the bandages and salve. The little jar he’d set out was Hattie’s, her handwriting on the label immediately recognizable. Come to think of it, all the supplies were from Hattie. For Idris’s wound.

As he poked at the fire, I noticed the black streaks on his wrist were almost completely gone. Almost.

“Don’t you want to save this for your infection?” I asked, lifting the jar of salve. “Hattie was specific in her instructions.”

Idris didn’t glance back. “I can spare it.”

Yet another act of contradictory kindness.

I unscrewed the top of the jar and gave the salve a sniff. It smelled sweet, botanical—just like Hattie. Sudden tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and my injured hand lifted to my chest, feeling for the labradorite pendant tucked underneath my tunic. I missed my friend. I hoped she and Wicker were managing all right without me. The town, too.

I sniffled as I lathered a small bead of salve across my knuckles, then wrapped my hand in one of the fresh bandages to keep it clean. I was still struggling to tie the ends one-handed when Idris lifted our meal off the fire.

He sat on the opposite end of the log, a good three feet away. He arched a single brow as he watched me fiddle with the fabric. I felt silly and helpless under his gaze—not exactly the impression I wanted to give the man destined to murder me. He gave me another thirty seconds of fumbling before he grunted frustratedly, rose from the log, and lowered to his knees in front of me.

Wordlessly, he held out one big hand, face-up. I curled my injured hand against my chest, staring at the callouses and creases that roughed his palm. There was so much life written across his skin. So much experience.

It might’ve been a small thing, to give him my hand, but I really didn’t want to undergo his touch more than I had to. To accept even a nominal amount of help from my future murderer felt…vulnerable. I already feared how unafraid of him I was, and given our tangled circumstances, his generosity only worsened my confusion.

“Don’t be stubborn,” he grumbled impatiently. “Let me do this for you.”