The horse follows me, even though it has to duck its head and the narrow jambs brush its flanks. Then again, it’s probably been brought indoors during very frigid nights on occasion, and after the ordeal of these hours, it’s come to trust us out of necessity.
Or maybe it’s more like attrition.
After I close us in, my eyes adjust, but only to the extent that I’m able to make out the contours of things. It’s similar to the way the ash cover coated what survived the blaze, no distinct edges on anything, just shapes: a table and a couple of chairs in front of a hearth, a collection of cooking supplies, and then an orderly lineup of heavy coats hanging on hooks. In the far corner, a set of steep stairs leads to the second level.
I stare at the ceiling, my ears straining. As the horse drops its head to the floorboards and nuzzles around as if hoping to find some hay somewhere, I try to drown out the soft sounds.
We wait. And wait some more.
My anxiety returns with a tingling that starts at the nape of my neck and flows down into my arms. The go-nowhere warning redoubles until my chest feels as if it’s going to explode. I’m so far from home, such as it was, and I miss my hovel under the stairs as if it’s a family member off to war.
Except I’m the one out here in the cold night, aren’t I.
Pacing around, I cross my arms and blow out my breath. I make a circle around the interior. And another. And another—
Merc’s going to need a bucket.
The conviction comes out of nowhere, and is the kind of rescuer I didn’t see coming. I’ve had attacks of panic my entire life, and nothing has ever derailed them. Ever.
In this moment, though, the urge to help Merc gives me… a job. And as I start to look around for something that we can fill with water, my flare of terror begins to subside: My brain’s focus shifts to something of greater import than the impotent fear that’s been my constant shackle for as long as I can remember.
This is a private triumph that may well have legs. If I can derail the fear now? Maybe I can do it in other situations when I am crippled.
All I evidently have to do is focus on keeping us alive. And fate knows I’ll have plenty of opportunities to practice this between here and the Outpost.
Shaky, but resolved, I go to the hearth area and start patting around a series of wall shelves with my hands. In the darkness, searching by touch reminds me of my home under the steps, where things were always dim. I easily recognize cups and plates, rough forks, the sharp blade of a kitchen knife. A pot. A—
The door opens with a creak and I spin around.
Merc is in the doorway and he has two buckets with him. “Found water.”
He goes over to the horse, and puts one of the loads down. As the chestnut drops his head and drinks with abandon, I fumble to find some cups.
“Don’t bother, come here.”
As he holds up the bucket, I go over and lower my lips to the wooden rim. Breathing in, I smell nothing at all, and a test sip reveals a sweet clean taste that makes me whimper. I ape the horse, but force myself to stop before I am satiated so there’s plenty left for—
“Keep going,” Merc says softly. “I had my fill out there to make sure it was safe.”
He always puts me first, I think as I continue to drink.
Before my emotions get too far ahead, I remember what Julion said. As it was a lifetime ago, the golden knight’s concerns seem like they were about two completely different people than my mercenary and me.
Giving my thirst free rein, Merc keeps tilting things forward as I swallow. When I finally straighten, I glance up and stop my gaze at the tail end of one of his braids.
“Thank you.”
He nods and puts the bucket down. Going over to the horse, he strips off the bridle and there’s another good shake, after which the chestnut clops over to a corner and lowers its head. A moment later, one of its back hooves turns up.
“We need to find food for all of us.” Merc starts going through cupboards. “There has to be some around here.”
An offended squeak reminds me that rats are everywhere, and the scurry of small rodent feet depresses me, even though there are bigger and better things to be discouraged about. Still, even after you lose your leg, a shard of glass in your remaining foot hurts, and sometimes the brain can only process bites of tragedy, as opposed to the whole rancid meal.
I hurry to join him, working the lower level of things.
All we find are rats and food too spoiled or nibbled at to eat—
When I stumble, I don’t even try to right my balance and fall to the floor. With my hip ringing in pain, I just lie where I land, my head happening to fall on my angled arm. Oh, how nice.
