But then Molly knocked on the door and we snapped apart. It reminds me of what he said when we were sitting in the grass.
I don’t want anyone to start thinking the King’s Courier just brought you along for your skills in his bed.
Perhaps I should have considered this earlier. He gave me every sign on the journey here. Even before, every time he visited the forge, he spoke of how he longed to just be Tycho.
When we were alone together in Briarlock, he could be.
Here at Ironrose Castle, he can’t.
The thought puts a little steel in my spine, and my cheeks cool. I should dress and explore before he returns so he doesn’t think I expect him to hold my hand through every moment.
In the wardrobe, the clothes are like the room: far too grand. I find linen tunics and leather jerkins and belted jackets. There are a few belts for swords and daggers, though no actual weapons. It all feels too generous, and I want to leave it untouched—but my only other options are the blood-and sweat-stained clothes I wore to get here.
Everything is too big, but I make do with a belted jerkin and a pair of trousers that have a cinched waist. I turn the pants inside out to knot the bottom of the right leg so they don’t catch on the crutches, then buckle and lace my soldier boot over my left. I don’t have a nail to pinmy hair in a knot, so it hangs in loose waves over my shoulder—but at least it’s not full of blood and tangles like before.
When I finally find my way down the hall, the large dining room is empty, but feminine voices carry from the kitchen beyond. I mean to slip out the door without being noticed, but they must spot me anyway. The lively girlish chattering turns into hushed whispers and abrupt giggles. After a moment, there’s abangand aclatterand suddenly Molly appears in the doorway, followed by another girl, slightly older, with olive skin and shiny black hair.
Molly offers a quick curtsy, which takes me by surprise. “Master Jax,” she says, then elbows the girl beside her.
I’m less rattled than this morning, but I’m not an idiot. I can see their nudges and whispering. But I had a week of that nonsense with the soldiers, and at least these girls aren’t armed.
“Hello,” I offer. “Molly.”
To my surprise, she smiles brightly in response, looking genuinely delighted that I remembered her name. The other girl gives me a curtsy, too, which makes her the second person toeveroffer me a curtsy. Her cheeks are faintly pink, and she taps her chest and shyly says, “Lola.”
“Lola,” I repeat. “Hello.”
Molly reaches into her apron pockets and withdraws a slip of parchment and unfolds it. “Are you hungry?” she says slowly in Emberish, which is a simple enough phrase that I know. Then she bites at her lip and glances down at the paper. “Tahrah?” she says, carefully pronouncing the word in Syssalah. “Hungry?”
For a moment, I’m stunned. I know Tycho said he’d write some things down, but it’s an unexpected kindness that she’d attempt to use my language.
The tense band around my heart eases a bit. I think of Callyn’s sister, little Nora. She’d be poking and whispering, too, but it would be curiosity, not malice. Maybe this is the same.
I venture a smile. “No. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She glances back at the paper, more confident now. I watch her eyes skim for another phrase, and I wonder how much Tycho wrote.
“Ah . . . ?do you need help?” she says, again repeating it in Syssalah.
“No. I want . . .” I search for a word I know, but everything I want to say is too abstract, too complicated.I’m going to wander around. I want to see the forge. Explore for a little while.
“Lookout,” I finally guess, a word I know from the soldiers, but then I grimace because that’s not quite right. “Walk?” I make a circle with my hand and gesture toward the door, then at my eyes. “See?”
“Oh,” Molly says, but she glances at Lola, who frowns.
SoIfrown.
But then Lola’s eyebrows go up. “Look around?” she guesses, pointing to her eyes and then making a circle with her hand like I did.
“Yes! Look around.”
Molly smiles like they’ve solved a riddle and looks at the paper again. “Dinner,” she says, “is at sunset.” She translates it again, but she points at the window. “Two hours?” She holds up two fingers.
“Two hours,” I repeat, and nod. I knew the increments of time from working in the forge, so at least that isn’t new.
In two hours, Tycho will be back. My heart gives a little skip.
But I remember how much has changed, and it stumbles back into a normal rhythm.
