Page 21

21

Concoctails

Anya

T he day unfolded grimly.

The clouds hung low and heavy over fields of slumped grasses and tilled earth. The road was muddy and puddled with rainwater. Mist showered down, clinging to our cloaks, stinging my cheeks. Everything on my person—from my clothes to the saddle to my boots—was damp and cold.

Grimmest of all, however, was Idris’s mood.

I hated how hurt I was by his sourness this morning. Because I hadn’t felt unsafe, as I probably should have in the face of my potential killer’s ire—I’d felt rejected .

I’d wanted to protest. To point out that I knew he’d enjoyed spooning me, too, at least physically. His hardness pressing into my backside, followed by his swift exit, had been proof enough of that. And I’d thought— Fates spare me —I’d thought he’d enjoyed it emotionally, too. In spite of the potential ruin between us, I’d savored his closeness last night; in the light of day, it was hard to excuse my feelings as merely a symptom of being cold.

Now, I didn’t know where I stood.

And so the day unfolded, with both of us stewing quietly, save to announce our occasional needs to relieve ourselves or procure a snack from Briar’s saddlebags.

We steered off the High Road early that evening, so that Idris could go hunting. The sprinkling rain hissed on the surface of the Wend. It seemed we’d need a tent again, so I set it up on the mossy riverbank between two weeping willows. Then I lit a fire using small twigs and fallen leaves and set a pot of water atop a sturdy log to boil tea. After that, I scuffed Briar’s withers, checked his feet for stones, and fed him another oat cookie, before allowing him to forage for grass along the bank.

Idris was still gone when twilight purpled the edges of the sky. The willows cast long shadows along the ground, their thin branches rattling in the breeze. When I was a girl, I found willow trees to be impossibly romantic: what better place to rendezvous with a lover than underneath the pretty shelter of their boughs? Here, I found them slightly unsettling, their constant movement in the breeze drawing my eye ever toward the darkness, alert.

Desperate for something less sinister to occupy my attention in the growing night, I grabbed my pack and sat on one of a few small boulders by the fire. With the harrowing events and quick pace of our travels, I hadn’t had much of a chance to audit the tinctures Hattie had packed for me. Aside from clothing, unknown bottles had been clinking in the bottom of my bag for days, and now seemed as good a time as any to inspect what she’d given me.

I pulled out the clothes, first, of which I was already familiar. First, my party dress from the Fate Ceremony. In addition to the gray-blue tunic I currently wore—which had dried overnight at Ida’s—Hattie had packed extra undergarments, too, along with trousers and another tunic in a rich charcoal color, stitched prettily with cream thread. There was the bar of soap I’d already used, plus a coin purse, a bottle of ink, and a few folds of paper, too, plus Hammond’s instructions and the sealed character references for my appeal.

When I finally reached the bottles, I pulled them all out, laying them in the dirt at my feet and stuffing everything else back into my pack. There were ten in varying sizes, plus a small jar of antibacterial salve. The excess of Hattie’s glassware made me grin; it was just like her to supply me with plenty of tinctures—impractical, given the weight, but also thoughtful and clever and demonstrating of her fierce love.

Six of the vials were tiny and intended for medicinal purposes: one for menstrual pain, another for stomach upset, my monthly anti-pregnancy tincture, a sleep aid, and two different tinctures for staving off infection (including one that was the same as what she’d given Idris for his wound).

The other four, slightly larger bottles elicited a laugh. They were what Hattie referred to as “concoctails”—concoctions to avail merriment. At the Possum, she was famous for mixing distilled spirits with sweet syrups and herbal tonics to create tasty alcoholic beverages worth sipping and savoring. In my pack, she’d included one with raspberry syrup, another with citrus and juniper, and two consisting of brown liquor, honey, lemon, and a dash of anise bitters.

It was silly of Hattie to assume that on my journey I’d require such a decadent way of getting drunk. But—bless her—this was just what I needed tonight. A chance to get my mind off of my confusing burgeoning affection for Idris, my coming trial, the bad weather, and all the other things that plagued me.

I was still chuckling to myself as I pulled the cork off the raspberry bottle.

“What’s so funny?” Idris asked, materializing out of the darkness beyond the firelight.

I scowled at him, meeting his petulance with my own.

But even as I did, I couldn’t help but marvel at his hulking form. A hare and quail dangled from his belt, the results of two successful snares. He still wore his breastplate, the menacing black reflecting the orange glow of the fire. Halgren hung ominously on the other side of his belt, its weight—and his familiarity with it—apparent. Indeed, one huge hand rested upon its hilt, as if it were an old companion.

A flash of knowing streaked through me like a comet as I remembered that same hand stroking warmth into my skin. Pulling me from the river. Pouring maple syrup into my porridge. His were hands that wielded flaming swords and set snares and would—supposedly, one day—drown me, and yet my experience with them had only ever been positive.

“Care to elucidate what’s making you frown like that?” Idris asked.

I hadn’t realized my lips had turned downward in thought. “You,” I answered honestly.

His mouth quirked up in a half-smile, and he smothered the doting expression with a palm, scratching his stubbled jaw with a humph .

I wondered what he saw of me. What features he noticed, which ones he liked. He had a bashful-looking nose, with a bridge that angled downward from middle to tip, as if the Fates had pressed it down. What opinions did he have about my nose? Did he find it cute, or too protruding, or did he not think of it at all? His lips were full, almost obscenely so; did he wonder what mine tasted like?

Fucking Fates, Anya , I warned myself. Don’t go there.

When he lowered his palm from his face, he was still smiling a little, his efforts to contain the expression failing. The moment passed, and he removed his armor and weapons, then busied himself with our dinner, taking the hare and quail off into the nearby shadows for cleaning and gutting—another task his hands knew.

While I sat there, alone again, it occurred to me how abrupt his contempt had been this morning. What if our closeness hadn’t irritated him? What if, in fact, he’d felt the opposite? What if his Oath demanded that he keep to himself, even if he didn’t wish to?

It was a lot to assume.

I sipped my concoctail, relishing the sweet sting of Hattie’s genius. For an inn and pub owner, I didn’t drink hardly at all, as I was usually busy supplying alcohol to my customers. This meant that the spirit went immediately to my head—not helped by my empty stomach.

By the time Idris returned, I was a third of the way through the bottle and already swaying a little on my rock. I stared openly at him while he removed the boiling pot of abandoned tea from the fire, added a couple logs, and laid out our prepared skewers of meat for roasting.

He sat on a boulder across from me, avoiding my eye contact for a few minutes before finally giving up his grumpy charade for pure curiosity. “Whatever are you drinking?”

“Concoctails,” I said with a hiccup. “Alcoholic mixtures that Hattie squirreled away in my bag. Want one?”

He eyed me dubiously. “Are you…drunk?”

“I’m tipsy ,” I corrected. I leaned forward, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Does that make you want to be ungentlemanly?”

Idris rasped a surprised laugh. “No?”

Was it possible for a single syllable to be…flirtatious? No , it must’ve been my semi-inebriated imagination.

“Can I see the bottle?” he asked.

I handed it over, and he took a swig.

“Hey!” I exclaimed. “Drink your own.”

He hissed and wiped a hand across his glistening mouth. “ Fates , Anya, that’s strong.”

I giggled. “Here,” I said, handing him the citrus and juniper one.

He took the bottle by the neck, lifting the label to the light to see its ingredients.

“Come on,” I goaded, “live a little, would you? The weather’s been miserable, and you’ve been miserable. It’s perfectly harmless to take the edge off.”

He quirked a brow.

“I know you quite like my edge,” I went on, “but yours is insufferable.”

He tipped his head back and laughed heartily. The sound fizzed in my ears, intoxicating in its own right. His dark waves fell away from his face, showing off his cheekbones, his jawline, and—without the obstruction of his breastplate—a bit of chest hair and his Oath tattoo. There was a rather deep hollow at the base of his neck, just beneath the black line. I suddenly had the inexplicable urge to press my tongue into it.

Maybe Hattie’s concoction was stronger than I realized.

Oblivious to my inappropriate thoughts, Idris uncorked his own bottle and sipped. Then scowled. “This one is different.”

“I should’ve known you’d prefer the sweet one. Here, we can switch.”

We traded bottles across the fire, and when he drank again, his mouth pulled into a pleased grin which, this time, he didn’t bother to hide.

A half hour passed. While I drank, he fiddled with the strips of meat, sprinkling them with seasoning from a small jar he’d procured from his pack, and turning them every so often so that they cooked evenly. I was salivating by the time he handed me a skewer.

Of course, it was delicious. Annoyingly so.

“You’re such a good cook,” I said around a huge bite of quail.

“I like to cultivate simple pleasures,” he said. “Good meals are one of them.”

“What other pleasures do you enjoy?” my drunken mouth asked.

His pupils expanded, darkening his blue-green gaze, filling it with firelight. But he merely shook his head and drank from his bottle, unwilling to engage.

Tipsy as I was, I now saw his reservation as a game—a challenge —rather than a deterrent. “Does your Oath require you to be so shut off, or is that a personality defect?” I asked.

Idris practically choked on his bite of dinner. “Wow.”

“Amazed by my sharp observation skills?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“How else would you put it?”

He paused for a beat. “I’d say I’m surprised you don’t have more tact, given your public-facing profession.”

“Most of my guests find my straightforwardness refreshing,” I said tartly, then grew more serious. “You didn’t deny that your Oath limits you.”

He stilled. “I did not.”

“That doesn’t disprove a personality defect, though.”

“I’d prefer it if you refrained from calling me defective ,” he said. “Hurts my fragile ego.”

I stared into his eyes, wishing they’d burn me with their fire. “You hurt me , earlier.” The drink was making me loose tongued, but I didn’t care. I was bursting with frustration. Over what, exactly, I wasn’t sure; I just wanted to make it his problem instead of mine.

He lowered his bottle, regarding me with genuine apology. “I’m sorry. I was an ass.”

Thinking about what he’d said of our night together, I asked—somewhat out of context—“So did you really?”

“Did I what?”

“Sleep fitfully?”

“Yes,” he said—roughly. He didn’t sound annoyed this time but stricken. “Did you?”

“I slept like a dream.” I aimed my honesty like an arrow at his armor. “It’s rare that someone bothers to look after me.”

Idris leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Where his shirt gaped from his neck, I saw the jagged white streak of a grizzly scar, and I wondered where it led.

“You’re…not unpleasant to look after.”

The deep register of his voice sent desire pulsing through me. I probably ought to have laid off the drink, but instead, I drank long and deep.

“If you can’t tell me about your Oath,” I said—back to a safer topic, at least for me—“can you tell me why you took it?”

He drank quickly, eyeing me over his bottle. “My brother.”

“Is he also in your Order?”

“Was,” Idris said, wincing at that. “I took his place.”

I touched my hand to my heart. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He nodded, then he drank. “Did you always want to be an innkeeper?”

“I grew up at the Possum,” I said. “When the original owner died, it became my inheritance—my everything.”

“Seems we both know loss. I’m sorry.”

I shrugged, minimizing the pain so that I didn’t get choked up. “Loss is a part of life. Besides, there are lessons in the hurt. Grief has made me more appreciative and intentional about the things I love.”

His mouth was wet from his drink, glistening faintly. “And what do you love?” His deep-river eyes held mine.

He’d said it— love —so softly, like velvet. The intensity of his gaze had me glancing coyly away, out through the willow branches toward Briar.

When I considered his question, the answers came easily. “Hattie, Wicker, and the Possum,” I said. “Festivals with snowflake candies. Bonfires with music and dancing. Sweetbreads and gossip. Sunrises over Stone Hill.”

He lifted his bottle high. “Cheers to Waldron.”

I hefted my bottle in response, my eyes pricking with the overwhelming feeling of homesickness, and being understood. “What do you love?” I dared to ask.

His gaze dropped to his clasped hands. “Memories.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so—feeling raw, myself—I said nothing.

If things in the capital went sour for me, everything I loved would become memory, too. I wanted to ask Idris about the likelihood of that outcome. I wanted to ask him what’d happened to his brother, about the things he’d loved that were now locked in his past—but even with the alcohol in my system, I thought better than to pry into old wounds. We were more alike than I’d realized, and I knew how delicate those kinds of scars could be. How difficult it was to cherish something and face the possibility of giving it up.

The fire crackled. An owl screeched. Silence gradually washed away the heaviness of our conversation, and with a few more sips, I found myself settling into pleasant tipsiness once again.

“So, this crime of yours,” Idris said, recovering himself, too. “Is it me you kill?”

I laughed, surprised by his bluntness—but also glad for the twisted levity of more rude questions.

“Some sort of instant revenge?” he continued playfully. “Double murder?”

“If only ,” I said.

“So, who, then?” he asked. “It must be a man.”

“Why’s that?”

“You seem like you’d happily kill a man.”

If it weren’t for the drink, I might not have found the comment funny—but I did. “Do you find me threatening, Idris?”

“Endlessly,” he said darkly.

I giggled.

“Does it have anything to do with the man at your inn? What was his name?”

“Remy.” Just saying it aloud left a bitter taste in my mouth, so I took a quick sip; the suction of the bottle popped at my upper lip as I lowered it.

“Remy?” Idris prompted.

“I have plenty of reasons to murder Remy,” I said, “but I wouldn’t .”

“He was a…paramour?” Idris sounded vaguely as if his mouth was filled with honey—slow and strangled.

“I’m not sure what he was, to be honest.”

Presently, I found I didn’t much care. He’d never given me his full attention; why would I be jealous of him giving it to someone else? His daughter certainly deserved his love more than I did. My only regret was that I hadn’t been more candid with him—and myself—about what I’d wanted from our relationship.

“You’re astute, you know that?” I said. “Seems wasted on the squirrels and the trees. You should be in towns, telling fortunes and trading gossip.”

“Reading minds is tiresome,” Idris said, playing along. “I much prefer the solitude.”

“Do you?” I challenged.

He stared out through the sheet of willow branches toward the Wend, pensive. When he looked at me again, his eyes were dark. “Actually, I don’t,” he admitted.