In the corner of my eye, I see her examining the shadeleaf crop. Its wide, low-growing fronds are nearly black, coated with a velvety-like soot. Beside them, mounds of gloamroots push up uneven humps of moistened soil. The only part visible above ground are the dark, fibrous stems that split into clusters of thin, sharp, ash-colored leaves. “I don’t recommend touching thosewithout gloves, unless you want to add further injury to your hands. The root is the edible part.”
She yanks her finger away as my eyes travel on, searching for the best task to give her while I work. Farther along, roughly hewn trellises sag under the twisting weight of embervine squashes—dark gold and almost bruised-looking.
“What happened there?”
The question has me turning to follow her gaze. The row beyond the embervines is grey and skeletal. Nothing is left beyond snapped, shriveled stalks and chalky-looking earth. “We don’t have the resources to farm them all. We had to choose what was easiest with the fewest amount of hands. The rest were left to fallow.”
She doesn’t say anything, and I raise an eyebrow. “Not an issue in Solvandyr, I suppose.”
There are thousands of them, after all. An endless stream of witches, obsessed with bloodlines, while we scrabble for what we can on the edges.
The orchard stands beyond the planting beds, pale trunks rising from the soil. Ashburst trees beckon the sky with thin, smoke-colored branches, violet fruit hanging in clustered orbs. Smaller, stonecore apricots grow between them, copper-skinned spheres with leaves thick and waxy to survive the cold.
Gesturing to them as we reach the storage sheds, I duck inside the first and snag an empty woven basket from the side. “Can you manage to collect fruit, or is that small task beyond you?”
She stiffens. “You’ll be watching my every move, I assume, so you’ll find out.”
Shoving the basket into her hands, I nod to the animal pens on our left. “None here have the luxury of sitting around. I’ll be over there, but I willabsolutelybe watching you.”
The pens lean together, left to their own devices for too long and now badly in need of refurbishment. The familiar bleat ofthe duskback goats comes from inside. Nightfowl rattle in their pens, slate-feathered wings tapping against the rails, eager to escape. Three soldiers, clad in the same dark uniform that the witch now wears, tend to them. Their eyes flicker to us and bounce away.
One of them is the asshole who was watching her at breakfast. Unease stirs in my gut.
The witch tilts her head. “I see. And what do I do when the basket is full?”
I nod to the oversized wooden boxes pushed against the wall beside the door we used to enter the croft, balancing on the pulley we’ll use to transport the food to the kitchen. “Empty them over there. I doubt you know what a full day’s work looks like, but a few hours won’t hurt you. Make a start.”
Lyra
“Here.”
Shading my eyes, I look up. An unfamiliar Darkwielder holds out his hand, gesturing at the full basket beside me. “I can empty that for you. I’m going that way anyway.”
There’s no hate in his expression. Only a wary kind of curiosity. “Thanks, but I’ll do it.”
I don’t need Duskbane calling me lazy, even though I’ve emptied at least seven overfilled-heavy baskets by now. My back is soaked with sweat, my stomach aching but not unbearable. And the knife that I slipped from the table at breakfast is digging into my spine, though it’s blunt enough to be close to useless. Getting to my feet, I brush off the dirt and pick up the basket. The gloves the prince tossed at me before he stalked off are padded enough that I barely feel the rub of the wicker against mybandages. Beneath that, though, my palms itch to no end, and I grip the basket tighter as I turn.
To my surprise, the soldier falls in beside me as I make my way up the long row. “There’s been a lot of talk about you.”
I can only imagine. My eyes slide over to the animal enclosure.
Duskbane is watching. He stabs the tines of his pitchfork into the ground, leaning on it as he watches us with a scowl tightening his face.
He appears to have lost his shirt.
And while the number of positive thoughts I’ve had about the male number very, very low, even I can admit that his chest is… something worth looking at. When I look up, the soldier stares at me, and my cheeks heat as I clear my throat. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I’m Beckett.” The soldier offers me a friendly sort of smile. Non-threatening. He keeps a polite distance from me. “I was the scout who found you in the Veilspire, you know.”
“Oh.” I study him a little more closely. Tight, dark curls sit close to his skull, riftlines curving around his face, highlighting pale green eyes. “I should thank you, I suppose.”
He snorts in what seems like amusement. “Don’t sound too happy about it.”
He’s right. I’m being rude. “I’m sorry. Thank you. Genuinely.”
I’m flustered, and I don’t know why. Lifting the basket higher, I attempt to use the handles to assuage some of the itching in my hands, and several of the gold-toned fruits topple off. Before I can put the basket down, Beckett drops down to one knee and picks them up. “Here.”
“Thanks,” I say again. But my eyes drift once more.
