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Chapter Five

Oskar

“You’re from Rexxentrum, aren’t you?”

Oskar had not meant to strike up a conversation.

He took after his mother in that he could happily go days without speaking to other people, least of all silly high-society ladies traipsing about in his tunic—practically swimming in it, all rumpled and slim-legged and wide-eyed, stirring in him a strange protectiveness that set off alarm bells in his head.

The less he interacted with Guinevere, the better.

And yet his question stretched between them as they walked side by side on the Amber Road.

“I am,” she admitted. “How did you know?”

“It’s obvious.” She had the shine of the capital about her. And he could leave it at that—he really should leave it at that.

“And how does the rest of Wildemount compare so far?” he persisted. Damn it. “Ruffians notwithstanding.”

He expected her to complain about the bad roads, the poor fare, and the lack of amenities in the small villages on the wayside. The life of a traveler was hard compared to what she was used to, and he wouldn’t hold it against her. Probably.

“It’s certainly no spa day at the Silvered Sunset Oasis,” Guinevere mused, “but, before the bandits came, I was rather enjoying it, actually.” Her softly rounded cheeks flushed at the dubious glance Oskar tossed her way.

“Camping in the forest, the open space, no lessons, going everywhere …It’s all so new to me.

After my parents moved me to Rexxentrum, I wasn’t allowed to set foot outside the walls of the Shimmer Ward. ”

“No hobnobbing with the commoners?” Oskar drawled with a sardonic smile. The palpable guilt in her lack of response spiked his temper a little, and he changed the subject. “Where did your parents move you from?” Incidentally, why do I even care?

Guinevere’s lilac eyes strayed to her muddy shoes.

“Around.” Her lithe copper-skinned fingers traced the silver chain where it dangled from her neck and disappeared into the collar of her tunic.

His tunic. “They ply their trade everywhere, with the caravans. I was born in…in those woods south of Deastok.”

“Cyrengreen,” Oskar said meditatively. Even just uttering the name sparked something in his veins—an uneasiness. A certain resonating wildness. “I’ve been there a few times. Not at all like other forests in Wildemount. Creepier.”

She didn’t say anything. He should take a cue from her and shut up now.

“What sort of lessons?” Oskar prodded. In the name of all the hells—why was he keeping this chatter going?

It was her fault. All those tentative, glass bell–punctuated pauses, the melancholy expression on that beautiful face.

He wanted to unwrap the enigmatic layers until he got to the very heart of her.

“Er, needlework, music, etiquette, some painting, a bit of household maths…” Her blush deepened. “Nothing that would be useful out here, I’m sure.”

Oskar now had enough information to form a picture of Guinevere’s parents.

It was far from flattering but woefully standard everywhere in the Dwendalian Empire.

The merchant class in these modern times, despite attaining a level of wealth that few could even dream of, still keenly felt the sting of their inglorious beginnings, their egos dragged down by the yoke of the label new rich that trailed after them from one gilded drawing room to the next.

So they raised their sons and daughters as aristocrats in the hopes of establishing what they thought a dynasty should be.

It was a load of nonsense.

Oskar brooded quietly for so long—for so many steps on the tree-lined, sweeping dirt road—that Guinevere turned the conversational tables on him. “Oskar? Why are you going to Boroftkrah?”

“To visit my mother’s clan.”

“How wonderful!” she chirped. Social graces, so fine and merry, wrapped around him like a serpent’s coils, constricting his chest. “Does your mother live in Druvenlode as well? Will you introduce me? I should surely love to thank her for raising a chivalrous son who lent me aid when I needed it most.”

He couldn’t bear to say it. Not again. He’d already told the blacksmith, the neighbors, the debt collectors, the undertaker. If he had to say out loud one more time that Idun was gone, it would be in a roar. His fury would swallow the world.

“You should concentrate on your supplies checklist instead.” He changed the subject with a mild but implacable tone. He gestured at the satchel. “It should be easy enough to barter those trinkets of yours for rations—”

“But—”

“A medicine bag—”

“I can’t just—”

“A length of rope—what is it with people never thinking they’ll need rope—”

“The goods aren’t mine to do with as I please!

” Guinevere burst out. “I told you, they’re for my parents to sell!

I already left so much inventory behind with the wagon.

The losses will be staggering. My father…

” She fell silent, her shoulders slumped as though even this fleeting defiance had exhausted her.

Oskar was reminded, absurdly, of a hedgehog. Tiny and balled up in self-defense, with the odd pinprick of spine here and there. He scoffed. “Be that as it may, your folks aren’t going to prioritize a bag of hairpins over their daughter’s well-being.”

She hesitated, her small fists clenching at her sides. As though she were unsure of her place in the hearts of those who were supposed to love her.

In that moment, Oskar saw red. No child raised by a caring parent would react the way she had. “Guinevere, you will barter as many goods as you must for the supplies that you need,” he ordered. “If your father raises a stink about it, you have my permission to—to thump him.”

“ Thump him ?” she repeated, scandalized beyond measure. He was glad that he hadn’t gone with his original choice of words, which had been beat him to a pulp. She looked ready to faint. “Well, I never!”

“You can ever,” he retorted.

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Then she startled him by walking briskly ahead, leaving him in the dust.

He suppressed a reluctant grin. The hedgehog had claws, after all.