Page 64 of Fate’s Sweetest Curse (Mirrors of Fate #2)

Meddling

Hattie

O w! ” I yelped, wincing.

Firm hands pressed on my broken arm, bone grinding as the break was realigned. The pain made my head swim, and I gripped the arm of my chair with the other hand, holding on as the healer worked.

Breen had deposited me in the captain’s pavilion a half hour ago.

The healer had arrived soon after, not bothering to introduce himself before he took my arm in his hands and began poking and prodding.

He’d given me a tincture of white willow bark, meant to reduce pain and inflammation, but it had yet to take effect.

“Almost,” he muttered to me now, pressing his thumb against the bruised skin by my wrist. He was young, soft-spoken, but overly efficient in his ministrations—which I supposed made sense for a healer in a war camp.

Why learn any sense of bedside manner when it would only slow you down on the battlefield?

Not that we were on a battlefield. Yet.

“ Owww .” I moaned as purple spots burst across my vision.

The grinding in my arm intensified, then lessened, replaced by an all-encompassing pressure as the healer fitted a splint along the underside of my forearm and wrapped it in place with a lengthy strip of cloth.

I wiggled my fingertips to test their range of motion, shuddering with discomfort as I touched forefinger to thumb. “Will it heal properly?” I asked .

He procured another, wider cloth from his supply bag, fashioned it into a sling, and fitted it over my head. “Quite likely,” he said noncommittally.

“Well. Thank you for your help,” I said.

“It’s my duty.”

Once my arm was cradled close to my chest, he wordlessly stood and made his way toward the overlapping flaps of the tent’s entrance.

I stood, too, glancing down to adjust the sling against the chain of my necklace. My chest was still crusted with dried blood from the cuts Corla had carved under my chin. “What about these wounds on my neck?” I called after the healer. “Can I have a wet rag to clean them up?”

“I was instructed to fix the arm. No more is necessary.”

Rude . “Surely cleanliness is necessary?” For Fate’s sake , there was still black monster blood on my dress.

He didn’t acknowledge me as he slipped through the flaps and out into the night.

I let out a frustrated sigh. At least my arm was set to heal properly—and my life wasn’t presently threatened. After the past couple days of strife, these seemed like blessings.

Still, what was I supposed to do now? Simply wait for my childhood-acquaintance-turned-Mighty-Captain-of-a-secret-war-camp to arrive?

Apparently .

There was no chance of escape. I had not been bound, but guards had been stationed all around the tent’s exterior; the orange glow of the surrounding campfires illuminated the white canvas, casting their shadows in stark relief against the walls like moving frescoes.

All around, the sounds of soldiers and knights permeated: harsh laughter, convivial chatter, the clatter of metal on metal.

Even in the dark, there would be no sneaking out of camp with this many trained fighters around.

Besides, the encounter with the Morta had shaken me. What if there were more lurking in the foothills of the Axe Mountains?

I rubbed my injured wrist, feeling terribly vulnerable and alone.

The fact that I knew the captain of this camp wasn’t a comfort.

I was supposed to be the dutiful wife of a wretched man in southern Fenrir, not an apprentice of a secret research program at the Collegium.

I wouldn’t put it past Brendan Harrow to send me back to Poe—or worse, tell Noble’s father and my family, who would no doubt invent another, more effective method of making me disappear.

Because as long as I breathed, I—as the eldest child of the Lord of Lothgaim—had rightful claim.

Peace among the Seven Territories of the Kingdom of Marona was how King Braven kept his power secure, and I was a threat to that peace.

After all, Raina’s upcoming marriage was far more politically advantageous for fostering unity between Marona and Lothgaim.

Archer Loth was respected by his people; Raina was beloved by hers.

While Raina or I would have the power to sway Lothgaim’s diplomacy for the Maronan crown, Raina was a gentler choice.

Romantic through marriage, instead of violent through a (lawful) coup.

I hadn’t fully grasped it nine years ago, but my aunt and uncle could’ve had me killed for who I was.

I might’ve been like a daughter to the king and queen, but Raina was their everything , and killing me would’ve been the only way to guarantee their daughter’s future.

(This had been my attempted assassin’s logic—a rogue act of loyalty from a castle soldier).

Sending me to Poe had been a kindness on their part.

Now that I’d resurfaced…I wasn’t sure they’d make the same mistake twice.

With a shiver, I turned away from the tent’s entrance and took in my surroundings. The pain in my arm was beginning to ease, receding enough for me observe Brendan’s quarters with a more focused, calculated attention .

A large table took up the center of the tent.

A map of the continent was spread across the majority of the worn wood, anchored at the corners with flickering lanterns and empty goblets that smelled of wine.

All around the map were platters of food: breads, cheeses, cured meats, fruits, and even a crystal dish of Lothgaimian chocolate truffles.

There was the wooden chair I’d sat in while the healer worked, the stool upon which he’d perched, a few unmarked crates.

A shaving knife rested on the lip of a wash basin in the corner.

Breen had let me keep my satchel but had confiscated my dagger; I plucked the blade from the empty basin and tucked it into my pocket. Just in case.

The only other furniture was a luxurious-looking bed—piled with furs, quilts, and pillows—that took up the entire back wall of the tent.

For a few seconds of weakness, I stared at it with a covetous need.

Had it not been Brendan’s, I would’ve been tempted to lie down—but this was his war camp, his operation, his fault .

I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days, but the exhaustion was eclipsed by my simmering dread.

The fact that Brendan was here, following Noble’s father’s orders…this seemed to be about more than just targeting alchemists at the Collegium. Something bigger was going on.

And clearly, Brendan had no problem making me wait to find out.

I turned away from the bed, sweeping my attention across the spread of food. My stomach was pinched and hollow from days on the road, but when I picked up a cube of cheese, I couldn’t bring myself to eat it—so I set it back down on the platter.

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

I looked up and there he was. Brendan Harrow, but older, standing just inside the tent.

In my youth, I’d watched countless girls swoon over his bulky arms and symmetrical face, but his conniving countenance had always set me on edge.

His competitiveness, superior attitude, and distain for Noble had only added to my distrust.

I gestured at the table. “Not much of an appetite. ”

“Somehow I doubt that.” His appraising expression softened into a tender form of bemusement. “ Fates , it really is you.”

The whole central table was positioned between us, and yet I still felt like we stood too close.

“My subordinates weren’t entirely convinced, but…” Brendan looked me up and down—eyes lingering on my chest—or perhaps the crust of dried blood that his healer had refused to let me clean—before finding my eyes again. “It’s unmistakably you.”

“Glad someone believes me.”

“You sound tense.”

“It’s been a tense few days,” I replied, “what with the attempted murder, kidnapping, and—” I lifted my left shoulder, drawing attention to my injured arm in the sling.

“But you’re safe now.”

“Am I?”

“Do you not feel safe in my camp?”

“I’m your prisoner.”

Brendan frowned and took another step farther inside. “We don’t have to talk about that right now.”

“I think we should.”

“Are you sure you aren’t hungry? Tired?” He gestured to the bed. “You’re welcome to—”

“What am I doing here, Brendan?”

A flash of something sinister darkened his eyes for the briefest moment, then cleared.

In all my years knowing him, Brendan had never threatened or harmed me, but sometimes he got this look—a harsh tension that signaled a capacity for violence, like he was simply waiting for an excuse to unleash it.

“I’m not sure what you’re doing here, Hattie,” Brendan said slowly, “but I’m curious to find out. Why don’t we sit?”

“I’m comfortable standing.”

“Very well.” He plucked a grape from one of the platters at the opposite end of the table and popped it into his mouth. The crunch sent a shiver down my spine. He raised a palm in an inviting gesture. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I rested my good fist on my hip. After the past two days, I was in no mood for veiled conversation. “I’m here because you sent five morons to Fenrir to murder alchemists and they targeted me.”

Recognition—or perhaps irony—flickered across his face, but I didn’t know what to make of it. “I’m glad you outsmarted my morons .”

“I’m sure you are,” I said. “It would’ve been embarrassing to tell General Asheren that you accidentally murdered a Wynhaim.”

“You are not just any Wynhaim.”

I couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or a threat. As evidenced by my attempted murder nine years ago, patriotism could make people do extreme things—and I’d been sent to Poe before I learned exactly where Brendan fell on that spectrum.

I set my jaw, refusing to appear afraid. Court face, Hattie .

“In any case,” I continued, maintaining an air of sass, “I’m here because of you. Which brings us back to the question: what are you doing camped on the Fenriran side of the border?”