She had caught herself then, laughing at her own enthusiasm.Sorry. I’m rambling again. You probably think I’m completely mad.
He had not thought her mad. He had thought her miraculous.
And terrifying.
Because if even half of what she described was true—and he found, against all reason, that he believed her—then why would she ever choose to stay?
Greywatch was grey stone and rough wool and the constant threat of violence. Her world had comfort and light and wonders beyond fathoming. Her world had healing. In her world, a man with a ruined throat might speak again. Might be made whole.
What could he possibly offer her that would compare?
Nothing, the darkness whispered. You have nothing. You are nothing. A broken knight in a broken castle, waiting for an enemy who has already won.
Gareth turned from the window. These thoughts served no purpose. He had preparations to make, defenses to shore up, a hundred tasks that required his attention. The king was away on crusade, leaving lords to squabble and plot. Alaric was coming, and the fate of Greywatch hung in the balance.
He could not afford to think about a woman with wild brown hair woven through with copper and gold, and eyes like spring leaves. Could not afford to wonder what it might be like to woo her properly, with sweet words and gentle courtship, the way a knight was meant to win a lady’s heart.
He could not speak sweet words, could barely speak at all.
And yet.
I see you,she had signed to him.Under all the silence and the scars. I see you.
No one had seen him in three years. He had made certain of it, building walls of silence and solitude so high that no one could scale them. And then this impossible woman had tumbled out of the sky, and she had looked at him—truly looked—and somehow seen through to the man beneath.
It was the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to him.
More terrifying than Alaric’s blade at his throat. More terrifying than crawling through the forest with his lifeblood draining into the earth. Because those wounds had healed, after a fashion. The scars remained, but the flesh had knitted itself back together.
If Elodie left—when Elodie left, for surely she would leave, surely she would find her way back to her world of marvels—the wound she left behind would never heal.
Dawn foundhim in the training yard, driving his body through the familiar patterns of swordwork until his muscles screamed and his mind went blessedly blank. The household was stirring around him—servants emerging to begin their tasks, guardsmen changing watch, the smell of bread baking drifting from the kitchens.
And there, at the edge of the yard stood Elodie.
She had emerged from the keep, her hair escaping its braid in wild curls around her face—mahogany and bronze and gold catching the early light. The past few days of sunshine had left their mark on her, freckling her nose and cheeks, and there was colour in her skin that had not been there when she first tumbled out of the forest. She was holding a slice of bread, half-eaten, and watching him with an expression he could not read.
He lowered his sword and turned to face her.
“Don’t stop on my account,” she called across the yard. “I was rather enjoying the show. Very medieval. Very... swooshy.” She made a vague gesture with her free hand. “Is that a word? Swooshy? It should be a word. The way you move is very—anyway, don’t mind me, I’ll just stand here and pretend I’m not gawping like a tourist at the Tower of London.”
Something shifted in his chest. Something warm and entirely unwelcome. He sheathed his sword and crossed to her, his breath still coming hard from exertion. Up close, he could see the shadows beneath her eyes—she had not slept well either, it seemed. The coming meeting with Alaric weighed on her too.
You are awake early,he signed.
“Couldn’t sleep.” She shrugged, the gesture too casual to be genuine. “Kept thinking about snake-faced lords and ominous messages and the general medieval doom of it all. You know how it is.” She took a bite of the bread. “Actually, you probably do know how it is. You don’t sleep much either, do you? I’ve seen you on the battlements at all hours. Brooding. Very dramatically. It’s quite the aesthetic, honestly—the silent knight, the moonlit moors, the distant enemy stronghold. Barbara Cartland would weep.”
He did not know who this Barbara Cartland was, but he understood the shape of the jest. His lips twitched despite himself.
“Right, yes, you have no idea who that is.” She waved her hand again. “Romance novelist. Writes about dashing heroes and fainting heroines and passionate embraces on the moors. My mum had stacks of her books. I read them all when I was twelve and developed very unrealistic expectations about—” She stopped abruptly, her cheeks flushing. “And now I’m rambling about romance novels to a medieval knight at six in the morning. Excellent. This is fine. This is a completely normal thing to be doing.”
She took a bite of her bread, seemingly to stop herself from talking, then immediately started again. “It’s strange, you know. It must be nearly the end of May now, which means my friend Rachel—she’s American, works at a museum in Boston—she’d be looking forward to a long weekend right about now. Memorial Day.”
At his blank look, she laughed. “Right, America doesn’t exist yet. Won’t for another... oh, six hundred years or so? It’s a whole other country. Across the Atlantic. Massive place, no kings or queens. Anyway, they have this holiday at the end of May, Memorial Day, to honour soldiers who died in wars. Everyone gets the day off work, has barbecues—that’s outdoor cooking—and it’s meant to be the unofficial start of summer.”
She gestured at her freckled nose. “I’m actually getting a bit of a tan, which never happens. In my time, I mean. I work indoors, hunched over artifacts and manuscripts. Jennifer always said I had the complexion of a medieval monk. Which is ironic now that I think about it, given the circumstances.”
I do not mind you talking,he signed. Your voice is...
