A moment later, Marcus groans. “This is a disaster! I’m not a poet.” He holds the paper at arm’s length, as if distance will improve it. “It sounds like a field report.”
I laugh, which makes Marcus smile, despite his frustration.
“Would you like me to help you?” I ask. “Write the letter?”
“Really?” He looks up at me hopefully.
“If I know my sister, a letter coming from you would make her year.”
Marcus passes me the letter. I try not to laugh; it does sound like a report. It’s an oddly clinical itinerary of his day.
“It’s awful,” he says, seeing the look on my face.
“No, it’s not that bad!” I say, lying through my teeth. Dietan laughs into his hands, and I shush him.
“Marcus is much better at expressing how much he likes someonewithoutwords,” Dietan says, waggling his eyebrows.
Men.I press my lips into a thin line. “Not a detail I needed to know.”
Now they’re both laughing at me, and I laugh, too, more comfortable around them than ever. Since the journey began, I’ve felt like a fraud, like I don’t belong here. But in this moment, we’re all friends.
Marcus holds out his hand, and I give the letter back. He crumples it up defeatedly and tosses it into the fire. I realize there’s a smoldering pile of letters at the bottom of the pit. He’s been at this for some time.
“Let’s start over,” I tell him. “If it feels awkward talking about yourself, talk about her.”
“What would I say?”
“She likes to dance, so maybe write about how you would want to dance with her the next time you see her, and how you want to see her smile, and how you want to take her in your arms… How you dream of the rhythm of her heart like a song. Does that help?”
Marcus nods. “Okay, I can do that. Thank you. It’s still harder than letters to the families of the fallen, and that’s saying something.” He starts scribbling on a fresh sheet of paper.
When I smile encouragingly at the general, I notice Dietan watching me over the flames. His lips curl up when I meet his bemused gaze. I abruptly look away, suddenly feeling like the fire is too close to my face. I don’t know what to think when he looks at me like that. I try to imagine him writing a letter like that to me, and I can’t.
“Sewing, cooking, and now poetry… Is there nothing you can’t do?” Dietan asks.
I don’t glance back at him, especially since I can hear the smirk in his voice. I stoke the fire again. “One thing I’m not good at is putting up with people who annoy me, actually.”
“Well then, I’ve met my match,” he says.
“You’re putting up with me, are you?”
“Same as you are with me. And we’re not good at it, are we? Putting up with each other?”
I glare at him, but he only smiles wider. Why do I find him so annoying…so annoyingly attractive?I know where this leads, I tell myself,and I’m not going there.
With a great rush of air between his teeth, Marcus hides his laugh behind his ledger, like he knows something we don’t.
“Don’t worry, Aren, Iamenjoying your company,” Dietan says.
Unable to come up with a suitably snarky retort, I bid them both goodnight.
Some things never change. The man is still a liar.
Chapter Twenty
Aren
We arrive at last in Fawnsreach, a town two days’ journey from the very southern border of Alarice. The bridge between the kingdoms means the large town is only a day’s journey from Loegria. It’s a popular destination for travelers and merchants offloading their wares and resupplying their packs. The buildings, painted in bright blue and red, encircle a well-worn market square where the crier announces the royal entourage’s arrival, his voice carrying over the busy chatter of the crowd and the calls of the merchants hawking fresh fish from the day’s catch.
