“Too late,” Mav coughed. “Damage done.”
“I merely meant?—”
“You nevermerelymean anything,” he grumbled.
I lowered my glass, fighting a smile. Thistle’s teasing had affected Mav more than I had anticipated. Down the tether came a flutter of emotions: embarrassment and a surprising dash of something too near to longing.
The table settled again. Dishes passed hand to hand. Thistle recounted a story about a potion she once brewed that accidentally made a farmer’s cow sing for three days. At the end of the meal, I offered to help with the dishes, and Thistle waved me off.
“You may rinse the goblets if it’ll make you feel useful. But I charmed the stew pot to clean itself. Grew tired of scrubbing it by hand after so many years.”
Warmth seeped into my bones. For the first time in an age, I felt included. Not observed. Not requisitioned. Simply welcome. I could not recall the last table that was an invitation rather than a performance.
When the plates were cleared and the fire burned low, Thistle caught Mav by the forearm.
“Did you still need some elixir for the evening?” she whispered.
Whether the elixir was for pain or sleep, I knew not. I supposed it was not my place to inquire.
Mav patted her hand. “Not tonight, thank you.”
Thistle’s brows lowered, but she said nothing further on the topic. She waved a weathered hand down the narrow hallway, beaded bracelets jingling together with the motion. “You know where the guest room is. Won’t you show theactualguest where to go? There’s a washroom directly across the hall from the guestroom. We’ll leave at first light, Branrir is only over in Pinehelm, so it shouldn’t take more than half a day’s ride.”
Mav muttered something under his breath and walked ahead.
I lingered only long enough to scratch behind Vesper’s ears. He pretended not to enjoy it, but his rattling purr betrayed him.
The guest room was little more than a broom closet with ambition. Two narrow beds had been pressed into the space with little regard for grace or symmetry, their patchwork quilts nearly touching at the corners. A single shelf jutted from the wall above the headboards. The air smelled of thyme, dust, and wood warmed by a hundred summers.
“I shall—” I pointed in the direction of the washroom across the hall. “Return shortly.”
“Right. Go ahead,” Mav nodded, digging through his pack.
The corridor was quiet, save for the patter of my footsteps. I closed the washroom door behind me, leaning briefly against it while I caught my breath. My reflection in the cloudy mirror looked worn—hair disheveled, eyes ringed with exhaustion. I peeled away my one and only gown and pulled Mav’s navy tunic over my head. The fabric hung loose, smelling faintly of smoke, salt, and something quintessentially him. I ran a hand through my hair, attempting order where there was none, then drew a breath to steel myself and stepped back into the hall.
The latch clicked softly as I reentered the room—only to stop short.
Mav stood with his back half-turned, bare to the waist, tugging a clean shirt from his pack. Candlelight caught across his shoulders, gilding muscle and scar alike.
“Oh—Saints—my apologies,” I stammered, spinning half around. “I should have knocked.”
He chuckled, unbothered. “It’s nothing you haven’t already seen, princess.”
“Not a princess,” I muttered under my breath.
That earned another low laugh, one that faltered when he finally looked up. His gaze caught on me, on the tunic draping too loosely over my frame, the sleeves rolled clumsily past my wrists. For a long, suspended heartbeat, neither of us moved. The air seemed to thicken, charged and uncertain.
“I hope you do not mind,” I managed, smoothing the hem, painfully aware of where it ended at my mid thigh. “I had nothing else, and you had been kind enough to lend it to me the other night…”
“Not at all.” His voice cracked, seeming strained. He cleared his throat and tried again, steadier this time. “I don’t mind.”
“Thank you,” I smiled at him. I could not help but notice that wearing his clothing seemed to affect him, though I could not define the extent of it.
He dropped onto one of the beds, hands resting behind his head. The small candle on the shelf cast a wan amber light over his face, gentling his brow from furrowed to thoughtful.
I perched on the edge of my own bed, uncertain how to commence the pretense of sleep. In time, I slipped beneath the quilt. Silence stretched between us.
I could feel his attention on me.
