“Steady,” Lord Tycho says, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to the horse or to me. He’s quiet for a moment, and my heart gallops along in my chest. I chance a glance over, and he’s holding out a small cloth pouch. “Cal sent some apple tarts. Would you like one?”
It’s so far from what I was expecting that it’s like he’s speaking another language. This is the first time I’ve really looked at him since he arrived, and now I see that his pristine armor bears deep gouges, and he’s missing a few buckles. But Mercy is unharmed, and he’s still got all his weapons, so whoever he fought with, he didn’t lose.
His eyebrows go up, and I realize I didn’t answer his question. I have to clear my throat. “No. My lord.”
We walk on. He eats one of the apple tarts, and the smell is heavenly. I shouldn’t have refused. My emotions refuse to settle anywhere. We keep walking down the lane, past the turn to Cal’s house, heading south toward the miles of woods that lead out of Briarlock.
I stop short, and that lick of fear I felt a moment ago returns. “You said your carriage was on the way to town.”
His lip quirks. “I don’t have a carriage.”
“But—”
“You know who I am. You know what I do. What courier would take a carriage?”
His voice is easy, but I still don’t understand. I draw a long breath, letting the steam out through my teeth.
“I wasn’t trickingyou,” he says carefully. “I was tricking your father.”
“I wasn’t worried about youtrickingme,” I say darkly. “I thought you were dragging me out here to fill my back with arrows.”
“If I were going to shoot you, Jax, it wouldn’t be in the back.”
I still can’t tell if he’s angry with me or if I’m angry with him—or if we’re both just so different that we practicallyarespeaking different languages. I stab my crutches into the snow again, and we keep walking.
“So where are we going?” I finally say.
“Anywhere you like,” he says. “I had no destination in mind.”
Now I round on him.Thisemotion is unmistakably anger. “If you don’t have a carriage and you aren’t dragging me out here to leave me for dead, then just let me go back to the forge.”
“Do you really want to go back?” he says, and the way he’s looking at me is piercing, like he knows every emotion I’m not voicing.
I inhale like I’m ready to breathe fire. I’m tempted to hit him with a crutch. I’m ready to snap at him that I’mbusy, that I don’t need his pity, that I don’t need some stupid spoiled lord from the Crystal City to interfere with my life when I’m in the middle of trying to save the forge through unscrupulous means.
But then he says, “I wanted to apologize.” His voice is low, and quiet, and earnest, and it stamps out some of my fire. “I would have done it at your workshop, but …” He takes a breath. “Well. If I had to stand there and listen to him much longer, I would have heldhishand in the forge.”
Warmth heats my cheeks, but I don’t look away. “You don’t owe me an apology,” I say. I swing my crutches forward and start walking again.
Lord Tycho falls into step beside me without missing a beat. “I do, actually.” He pauses. “I should have warned you about the magic. I shouldn’t have assumed. But you were so cavalier, so bold.” He cuts a glance my way. “It wasn’t until you began lecturing me onkindnessandsufferingthat I realized I made a misstep.”
I was tripping over the wordscavalierandbold, but this makes me flush. I’m the one who should be apologizing, truly, but I’m not sure what will come out of my mouth if I open it.
We walk in silence for a while, until we’ve traveled so far that I know I’m going to hate the walk back. I don’t often go farther than Callyn and Nora’s. But maybe that’s why I keep going.
“Did you really think I was dragging you out here to shoot you?” he finally says.
I keep my eyes on the snowy trail, but I nod. “Either that, or you’d beat me senseless.”
“Really!” He actually sounds shocked.
I glance at his scarred armor, at the weapons strapped to his body. “Yes, my lord,” I say dryly. “I realize such a thing could hardly be foreseen.”
“Hmm,” he says, and for such a simple word, the tone is interesting, weighted in a way I don’t expect.
Wind whistles through the trees, blowing snow from the branches overhead, and I shiver.
He holds out the little cloth bag of apple tarts again. “They’re still warm.”
