His teeth grind, but he says nothing, which is a win considering I’m sure he’d love to sling more insults at me.
I fold my weaves, bringing them to a corner as I try to figure out how I’m going to work with Ramsey in the hut.
I’d tried working at the table, but my weaves grow large, and when they hang off the edge, they distort, leaving me only the floor.
“I’ll keep to this corner, basketing my weaves when I’m not working on them.”
Ramsey sits down on the bed, placing his forearms on his thighs. “You smell.”
“Pardon?”
“Your scent is everywhere. All around my hut. I cannot escape it.”
“I just took a bath,” I argue.
“And still, you smell.”
I lift my arm and sniff, smelling nothing.
He could be lying to demoralize me, but Ramsey doesn’t strike me as the type that would do that. Besides, he could easily find ten other things lacking in me to bring to my attention, so why would he make something up?
“I could bathe again.”
“That will not help.”
“Then tell me, what will?”
His hands clench again, and he exhales a long breath.
I go over the numbers in my head. There are eighteen left of us, twelve still need blankets, and each takes roughly three days of uninterrupted weaving. But I have to add time to dye the fabric, and clothes…plus Grixis’s gift.
“A hundred days,” I finally tell him, though I could be off by as many as thirty.
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’ll take me at least a hundred days to finish my weaves.”
“That is more than excessive.”
“It’s not a straightforward process. I have to dye the thread. Then, I must arrange all the tools to get the weave started. There are eighteen of?—”
“Enough.”
Without another word, he lies back on the bed, slinging one arm over his face, his elbow between his eyes, covering them.
How is it possible that his quiet rage is worse than his yelling?
I can’t help but wonder if he was always like this or if it was his exile from Tempest that soured him.
And how does a man as honor-bound as he get exiled? I don’t see him doing anything to shuck his honor, which means he was probably defeated in combat.
Not that I would know much about Tempest customs to say if that’s true, and I don’t think he’d appreciate me asking.
After making significant progress on a new weave to calm my nerves, I go back to the damaged one, undoing the parts that need to be rewoven.
It’s easy to get lost in my work, because it reminds me of what I left behind. Not Penticar, but before that. Years before that.
“Tighten your weave,”my mother would say. My small fingers struggled to get it right, but I’d taken her advice to heart over the years, improving my skills to be equal to those who’ve mastered the craft.
