But the child isn’t looking at her mother. She’s looking at us.
‘People,’ she says, pointing at the door.
Narra hisses, making her way to the door and staring at us with a face like thunder. ‘Speaking of trouble.’
‘We didn’t mean to eavesdrop,’ Isagani says, sheepishly.
Ligaya rolls her eyes. ‘You two love getting into mischief.’
‘Who are they?’ Ris asks, eyeing us warily.
‘Other guests at this inn: merchant Larkin and his daughter Isa.’
Ris stands, her body braced.
‘What’s the matter?’ Narra asks, observing the change in her demeanour.
The child is staring at me. ‘You’re not him!’ she yells suddenly, lashing out at me. ‘Why would you say that?’ she screams and the fireplace roars to life, the whoosh of the heat sending Ris stumbling backwards. The hem of her travelling cloak is aflame, and I run forward, smothering it with the soles of my boots.
‘What in fucking Aistra was that?’ Isagani asks, scrambling up from the floor.
‘She’s touched,’ Ligaya says.
‘Touched?’ I echo. ‘You gave them the drink, the spell! They shouldn’t be able to cause harm.’
‘I know,’ Ligaya says helplessly.
‘That’s no petty magic,’ Narra says, hand on her chest, breathing laboured. ‘Have you done that before, child?’
Biba awakens from her shock, and nods slowly. ‘I can do things. Sometimes it’s an accident. Mama told me not to show anyone, but they found out anyway. That’s why we had to run.’
The atmosphere in the room shifts and a horrific sound like an animal dying comes from Ris. At first, I’m not sure what it is, and then I realise she’s crying, smoke gently still rising from the smouldered hem of her cloak.
chapter nineteen
ris
When I wake, I feel as though I could sleep for another year. It takes me a moment to understand my surroundings. Dark wooden beams and a lumpy bed. I throw open the curtains and window, letting the weak light into the dusty room. Biba laughs high and bright, waking from her peaceful dreams. I smell the air, sharp and briny, and listen to the voices on the wind: Nishian, Lassren, and other urgent tongues.
Voices from below, shuffling of furniture, heavy footfall on the stairs. We follow our noses to the dining room and could almost cry at the sight of the breakfast spread. Bowls overflowing with rice, fried fish, eggs, wheels of cheese, and fresh greens.
Among the inn’s guests I recognise the eavesdroppers: the man and his daughter. His awareness of his broad frame as he moves, trying not to knock his dining companions. He proffers a plate of soft-boiled eggs at the kid. They’re wiry, all limbs inside their loose-fitting overalls. Three thin ribbons are clumsily tied into their fringe: blue, purple, and green. She, they, any. They don’t look much like a merchant and daughter.
‘Hungry?’ Ligaya asks Biba and she nods enthusiastically. I hover awkwardly by the bench until the merchant moves down to make space.
We sit, and I surreptitiously eye him as I spoon some rice into my bowl. His face is handsome, a small scar on his right eyebrow, whichenhances the dark, strong features. I can tell from his tan lines he recently got rid of a beard. There’s something reassuring in the heft of him.
‘I’m sorry you had to see that last night,’ I say awkwardly. ‘Not the most pleasant of introductions. I’m Ris, and this is Biba.’
‘Not at all,’ he replies. ‘I’m sorry we were so rude. Larkin. And Isa.’
I stare at him and then Isa, remembering the names they gave last night. It wasn’t a common name; one I hadn’t heard in years. ‘I would appreciate if you kept what you saw to yourselves.’
The merchant Larkin winks.
‘And I’d be glad of some honesty too,’ I add and his expression shifts.
‘Excuse me?’ he asks.
