“I remind you, I am no princess,” I murmured, futilely smoothing my wild hair. “But yes, I did sleep well.” Rising, before he could reply, I crossed to the adjoining washroom. “If you will excuse me, I should make myself presentable.”
The chill of the floorboards bit at my bare feet as I crossed to the adjoining washroom. Inside, the small basin waited, half-filled with water gone cool overnight. Upon discovering my disheveled reflection in the rippled surface of the mirror, I realized I had nothing with which to ready myself. My gaze caught on a wooden comb resting beside the basin, its teeth worn smooth with use, Mav’s no doubt. I hesitated, fingers hovering above it. To borrow such a thing bordered on indecorous and overly intimate. Yet vanity, or the simple desire to feel a fraction more human, won out. The comb snagged on my tangled hair enough instances to make me wince, but the overall effect on my appearance was well worth the discomfort. When I splashed water upon my face, it struck cold, chasing away the haze of sleep but not the deeper weariness beneath. Smoothing my hands over my singular gown, I wished I had something else to change into.
Mav’s voice called through the gap between the door and frame. “I’ll be right back.”
I heard the door close, and at once the tether stirred, tightening behind my sternum as the distance between us increased. Willing myself to draw steadying breaths, I walked closer to the main door, relief blooming as the strain eased. His returning footsteps sounded in the corridor, and the tension on the thread between us slackened entirely. He entered carrying a pair of boots.
“I had to guess on sizing, but my neighbor raised four daughters and was happy to part with them,” he said, setting them at my feet. “They’re hardly fit for a lady,” he added with a shy grin, “but they’ll keep your feet from getting any more torn up.”
“I…” Any chance of reply stalled on my tongue. The gesture was practical and thoughtful. Warmth climbed throughout my chest at the unexpected act of kindness. I slipped my feet inside, the worn leather molding neatly to my heels. While they were not a perfect fit, they were near enough to send a wave of emotion washing over me.
“Thank you, Mav,” I croaked, swiping at the wetness on my cheek.
His eyes widened when he noted the tears in mine. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
My head shook. “You have not upset me. On the contrary, I am overcome with gratitude.”
“They’re just shoes…” Mav’s brows lowered in bewilderment, unsure as to why the act would elicit such a response from me.
Managing a half smile, I locked my gaze with his. “Not to me.”
After several moments of thick silence, he shrugged. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes, though I cannot promise to enjoy what awaits.”
Mav chuckled. “Wren should add that to the sign,” he said, already moving toward the door. “The Withering Whistle, we cannot promise you’ll enjoy what awaits.”
He held the door open for me, though I did not expect him to. We were not lovers, nor friends, nor anything that fit neatly into language I knew. Yet as we stepped into the pale morning—over cobblestones slick with last night’s rain, beneath a sky of unpolished pewter—I could not shake the sense that something had begun between us.
The Withering Whistle revealed no greater charm in daylight. Within the leaning walls, the air still carried the scent of ash and vinegar, the cloudy windows reluctant to admit the day. Yet there was a reassuring constancy in it, a warmth worn into the bones of the place akin to a song remembered without knowing when one learned it.
Wren stood behind the counter, his gray eyes darting up as we approached. “You again,” he grunted, already ladling a steaming, viscous substance into chipped bowls. “What is it this time, Bassiano? Pity breakfast?”
“Let me guess, pity costs extra?” Mav goaded, rolling his eyes as he settled onto a stool.
Wren snorted and set the bowls before us: porridge and stewed fruit glistening with heat. I moved to take the seat to Mav’s right only to feel it tilt beneath me, sending me toward the ground.
A yelp escaped my throat as balance failed.
Before sense could follow, Mav’s arm was around my waist, firm and sure, drawing me flush against him. The room receded to the span of his chest beneath my palms, the rough weave of his shirt against my skin as his heart thundered, hammering against my fingers with each rapid beat. His sharp inhale brushed the crown of my head. I dared a glance upward, and my gaze collided with his. Mav’s eyes darkened, an unspoken swirl ofconcern warring with the stern line of his brow. A hard swallow worked his throat.
Decorum insisted I draw back, but for several breathless heartbeats, I could not remember why distance had ever been required of us.
“Saints preserve me,” Wren muttered, cutting through the hush. “Maybe pity doesn’t cost extra, but if I’ve to watch this nonsense, I’ll charge double. Felix!”
The trance broke as Wren barked at one of his staff. A boy hurried forward, replacing the offending stool with one less treacherous. Mav lowered me onto it with disarming gentleness, releasing his hold on me only once I was seated.
“Thank you,” I murmured, though the words barely carried. My cheeks burned.
“You’re welcome in my arms anytime,” he said.
The words hung in the thickened air, reckless and too intimate by half. His eyes widened as realization dawned. Color surged up his neck, blooming high across his cheeks.
“I—that’s not…I wasn’t implying,” he stammered as his gaze darted away. “I only meant if you fall, I’d rather catch you—not that I wish you to fall more…again…”
The sentence stumbled to its end, clumsy and earnest in equal measure. Mav’s eyes dropped to his bowl as though it held some profound revelation, his face twisting into a grimace.
As the corners of my mouth curled up, a wave of feeling washed down the tether. His emotions, muted but distinct, brushed against my own—the chill of mortification, the quick burn of self-reproach, the quiet wish to erase his words. Among the feelings I expected, one surprised me…a flash of fear.
