I took a ragged breath. “How many years ago?”
He scratched his wide ear with a claw, thinking. “The Boudica Uprising, hmm, math is not my strong side, but you can surely do it yourself.” Seeing my flabbergasted face, he tried again. “Boudica, the Rebel Queen? The one who humiliated the Romans for years before meeting a tragic fate? Branwyn was one of her generals.”
“But that was” — my lips moved soundlessly —“nearly two thousand years ago.”
“I see you’re no better at math than me.”
It all made sense now. The pictures in that book in the crypt. His power.
“What is he really, Nibble?”
The bat stared at me for a long while with his wide, beady eyes. “That, my dear Daphne, is not a question for me to answer.” Then, much softer, Nibble said: “If you’re planning something dangerous, just—try not to die. It’d be such a waste of potential.” A pause. “And violets.”
With a sweep of his wings, he darted to the cracked windowpane and slipped into the night.
I stared after him, stunned.
I tried to shove Emrys from my thoughts, tried to focus on my escape, on Milan, on freedom.
But the memory of his voice—low and raw as he whispered “Branwyn”—haunted me, filling my dreams with visions of a red-haired woman, bleeding from a thousand wounds, while warriors in steel and leather burned down a wooden village. Screams and smoke filled the air, while awinged figure watched it all with silver eyes full of madness and pain. A god too late. A man too broken.
Daphne
Of Cheese and Chaos
Sunlight spilled across my bedroom floor when I woke up. I sat up, rubbing my eyes, surprised I’d slept this long. Judging by the gnaw in my stomach, it had to be early afternoon. I swung my legs out of bed and stood quickly, half-expecting to hear Liang’s familiar footsteps at the door. But no tray arrived. No warm breakfast. With a sigh, I decided to find the manor’s kitchen myself. The maze beyond the door was helpful today, and my nose helped a lot. After a couple of turns and flights of stairs, I pushed open an old oak door.
Golden light spilled through the narrow windows, pooling across the stone floor. The mouth-watering scent of roasting garlic, sweet onions, and fresh herbs hung in the air. Copper pots, scrubbed to perfection, hung above the hearth, and flour dusted the stone counters.
I stepped in barefoot; the flagstones cool beneath my toes, and paused at the threshold. It smelled like memory and comfort and something that reminded me of happier days, of Mother’s laughter and Saturday tea with cookies.
Liang stood at the butcher’s block in the center of the room, a bundle of spring carrots in one hand and an enormous, terrifying sword in the other. The blade looked likesomething meant for battlefield decapitations, not mincing vegetables. Still, he moved with precise, elegant ease—chopping the carrots and humming.
“Speaking of the devil!” a squeaky voice announced, and I spotted Nibble perched on the spice rack, holding a baby carrot. Liang put his blade away and glared at me, his single eye wide in surprise.
I looked at the bat, then at the sword, and back again. “Is that a cleaver or a threat?”
“Both,” Liang said calmly. “Depends on the guest.”
“I come in peace!” I jokingly declared, raising my hands. “And I’m looking for food.”
“Makes two of us,” Nibble murmured and chewed loudly on a piece of carrot.
“What about a beef sandwich, Miss Daphne?” Liang wiped his hands on a cloth and walked to a cupboard. “With some cheese? Sit down by the fire while I’m preparing it.” He pointed to a wooden chair next to the crackling fireplace. I satdown, letting the warmth soak through the cotton dress. I stole glimpses of the strange symbols tattooed on his corded neck and forearms.
“He writes all stories of his life on his skin, so he does not forget,” Nibble clarified from his rack, noticing my glare. “The one on his neck, covering that nasty scar, is how Emrys found him.”
“I thought you avoided telling others’ stories?” I snapped at the bat, who grinned in response. Liang handed me a plate with a thick slice of rye bread, piled with marinated meat and cheese.
“The bat? He’s putting his nose everywhere.” The man shrugged and walked back to the kitchen island. “As for how I met Lord Emrys, I don’t think it’s a secret.”
“Can I have a bite?” Nibble landed on my armrest, eyeing my sandwich with the intensity of a starving squirrel. Though I had to admit, the twitching pink nose had the power to melt a heart of stone.
“You’re proving my point, Shadow!” Liang threw his hands in the air. “But he’s right. Some stories are too important to be forgotten, so I’d rather see them every time I look at myself. Those are the stories that made us who we are.” Lost in thought, I handed a piece of bread to Nibble. “Can I have some cheese, too?” the bat begged. I sighed and handed him a slice. Nobody could resist those puppy eyes.
What would be the story that I’d like to carve into my skin? I pondered. How some vengeful entity, driven by an ancient curse, took my parents’ lives and settled into my mind? How my brother tormented me for years, trying to break me and sell me into some miserable marriage that would fill his pockets? Or how I ended up in that living hell—St. Dismas, and then found my way here, which was actually not the worst place I’d ever been?
It got silent. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables stopped. Liang was watching me, his dark brows drawn together.
