That did it. My chin trembled. I hated to be this girl, hated crying at straw beds and chamberpots, but I was overwhelmed: hungry, angry, bone-tired, soaked through. I wanted my couch, a blanket from home, and a mug of hot cocoa. Except cocoa was centuries away.
Torin said gently, “I must put up the horses. I will return in a moment.”
I shook my head. “Fine, whatever, do what you need to do, doesn’t matter to me.”
I looked away.
The ladder groaned under his weight as he descended, then the door opened and the roar of the downpour rushed in. Torin left, the door thudding shut behind him.
He had to go out in it.
That sucked.
I felt bad for him. Almost as bad as I felt for myself. I wanted to ask Torin if I should strip out of my tunic and sleep naked under the scratchy blanket, or if it was better to stay in wet clothes. I was too miserable to decide, and too stubborn to ask.
I took a bite of stew. It was pretty good actually, rich, salty, and warm. But that was likely because I was starving. I had never eaten so little.
Then I thought about Torin, and how he was twice my size and eating the same portions and my heart wanted to break about how bleak this was for him. And how even though I hated him, he was trying so hard to keep me safe.
I finished my stew quickly and licked the spoon clean. I was very thirsty. But he hadn’t brought up a drink.
I peered over the edge of the loft again. Dude looked up, sauntered over to the bottom rung of the ladder, and meowed.
The old man in the corner looked fast asleep, his head drooping on his chest.
I whispered, “Dude, want to come up?”
Dude meowed again and returned to the hearth.
I muttered, “Yeah, don’t blame you, it’s cold up here.”
The door creaked open. Torin reappeared, dripping like he’d waded through the river itself. Water poured from his hair, plastered his shirt to his chest. He looked exhausted.
He stood dripping on the hearth, beside the fire, a slight shiver to his shoulders as he spooned stew into a mug and ate it hungrily. It worried me that it sounded like he had scraped the bottom of the pot.
The old man slept beside him.
I watched from above as the fire snapped in the hearth, casting dancing light over Torin’s face. He finished his mug of stew and helped himself to seconds, calling up, “Ye need another, Princess?”
This time the spoon definitely scraped the bottom of the pot. The stew was gone. I made out that he had a half helping, at most.
I shook my head. “No, that was good, I’m full.”
He finished the second helping in three spoonfuls, then dug his finger in, and licked the last of it.
His hands were likely filthy.
I sighed. If I were truly a princessallof this should be a lot better.
The sound of rain on the thatch was constant. In such a tight low space, it was easy to imagine drumming on a coffin lid. It was a real bummer to my already sucky mood.
Torin sat on a three-legged stool, and removed his sopping wet socks and boots. He placed them out on the dirt floor near the hearth. Then he took off his linen tunic and spread it out flat.
He returned to the ladder. “Princess, can ye pass down yer wet clothes?”
I passed down the plaid.
He asked, “This is all? Ye are warm enough?”
