Kristen exhaled, about to ask where he had been for the past five years, when the door creaked a little on its hinges. They both turned to see a small figure standing in the gap, hair mussed and eyes wide.
“Me Lady,” Finn whispered. “Is anything wrong? Who is that man?”
Kristen shot Neil a cold glare before crossing the room. She dropped to her knees and checked the boy as if he were made of glass.
“Nothing’s wrong, love,” she said softly. “Ye should be with Moira and Anna.”
“I heard voices.” Finn looked at Neil and flinched.
Pain flared behind Neil’s ribs like a belt pulled tight. The boy had looked at him as if he were a collapsing wall.
A moment later, Moira appeared, her hair loose and her apron askew.
“Forgive me, me Lady,” she panted. “I looked away for one second.”
“It is fine,” Kristen assured her. “Take him to the kitchen. Oatcakes and honey, if he sits nicely. Tell Anna that I will bring her ribbon.”
Moira reached for Finn’s hand. “Come on, lad.”
Finn held onto Kristen’s sleeve. “Will ye come?”
“In a little while.” Kristen smoothed his hair and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head with a gentleness that made Neil’s throat work. “Go now.”
Finn nodded and let the maid lead him out. Maggie hovered, gave Neil a low growl, then followed the boy with her head down.
The corridor swallowed their sounds, leaving Kristen and Neil alone in the silence.
Neil saw his own hands, stained and cracked, hanging open at his sides. He saw dust on his boots and dried blood on his cuffs. He smelled the road on himself and the ache of long nights without a bed.
“We still have to talk,” he pressed.
Kristen faced him with her chin tilted up and her eyes narrowed. “Nae like this,” she said. “Ye are filthy, and exhausted, and scaring the children.”
“They walked in,” he pointed out.
“They walked in on a bloodied man who had me wrist in his hand,” she shot back. “Go bathe first.”
He looked down at himself, as if the truth were written there. Dirt in the seams of his coat. Dried sweat. The fresh wound in his shoulder. He felt every mark at once.
He dragged a hand over his jaw and felt the rasp of an unkempt beard. Shame slithered behind his ribs. He had battled through fire and rope and steel, yet this simple thing felt like a reckoning.
“Fine,” he muttered.
Kristen did not step aside. “There is hot water in the east room. Tell Giles that ye need more. Leave yer clothes outside the door. I will have them burned if they cannae be mended.”
“They are mine,” he protested.
“They are filthy,” she argued. “Do ye want Finn to see this again?”
He blinked. “Nay.”
“Then wash,” she urged. “Use lye. There is salve for burns in the blue jar. Daenae be proud.”
He almost smiled. “I am nae proud.”
“Ye certainly behave like it,” she retorted, but with less bite in her voice.
He took a step back, and the room felt larger by a finger’s width. “I will wash,” he said. “Then we will speak.”
