“I know what he is.”
“Good. Then don’t let him bind you in a contract. No good will come of it,” Warden says, and trots out of the yard.
I hear the thudding of his hooves as he gallops into the night.
KAITLYN
To my eternal surprise, we’re welcomed warmly by the innkeeper, a cheerful, rotund warlock with a bald patch, ruddy cheeks, and a maroon apron, who shows us to a comfortable nook with a sitting area and a fire burning brightly in the hearth before bustling away to get our supper.
“Have you known Warden long?” I ask as I warm my bottom next to the fire, stretching my legs to get the circulation going.
“Warden?” Linton is inspecting the brocade on the edge of the heavy curtain hanging on the door frame of the seating nook. It’s hooked back but can obviously be dropped for privacy.
“The centaur?”
“The Brag.”
I feel my brow furrow.
“Warden is a Brag.” Linton looks up from his inspection. “And he is the gaoler of the Shadow-Keep.”
It takes me a beat to understand the word Brag is the name of the monster, not something Warden does. Even though the huge centaur looked like he’d do anything except brag.
“Were you…in the Shadow-Keep?” I ask.
Linton shakes like he’s been hit. Scales fall from his wings and cover the floor around him. Before he can answer, the innkeeper appears with a tray, and Linton stumbles back away from him before recovering himself with a growl, a knife appearing in his hand.
“Oh, Mister Linton,” the innkeeper says, shaking his head and chuckling as if he hasn’t nearly been scalped by a mothman.
Linton wrinkles his nose, sniffs, and stows the knife away again, but he watches the innkeeper like a hawk (moth) as he crosses the nook and puts the tray down on a low table next to the fire.
“Do you have any luggage, Madame?” he asks me.
“No,” I say quietly. “We left in a hurry.”
“My wife might have some alternative attire to your wedding dress,” he says with an easy smile. “She’s an excellent seamstress and could easily make something to fit.”
I try not to meet Linton’s eye.
“That’s very kind of you, but we’renotmarried,” I say emphatically.
The innkeeper chortles to himself. For whatever reason, he doesn’t believe me.
“And I don’t have any coin to pay for clothing,” I add, hoping that might dissuade him.
“Mister Linton will pay,” the innkeeper says happily, not even looking at Linton.
My Bluecap growls under his breath.
“No, it’s fine,” I say rapidly. “I don’t need anything, really. What I have on will do.”
“I will pay,” Linton rasps. “Get my female clothing,” he adds, pulling another knife out and flipping it into the air as if he’s juggling a ball.
He catches it and balances it tip first on a finger.
The innkeeper chuckles again and leaves us alone.
“You don’t have to buy me clothes. I have…had coin. I left it at the bakery,” I say pointedly.
