He isn’t wrong. The image of the Eastlanders is the only thing keeping me composed.
Clearing his throat, he gestures with the tunic. “For you. I couldn’t find any armor your back could bear. There’s a quilted gambeson here, though. A bit large, but still better than a dress.”
“I fight fine in a dress,”I sign.
A small smile curves one corner of his mouth. “That you do. I cannot argue. But a tunic and breeches will make riding easier.”
I press my hand to my bruised chest. The boning Mother sewed into the bodice provides support. The summer-linen tunic is thin and loose. Too thin and loose for a woman to wear while jaunting across the valley and through a forest.
As for the gambeson—it looks made for a giant. It would swallow the Witch Collector, let alone me. Still, the softer armor will provide modest protection from a blade and arrows if it comes to that. But I can’t ride in such garb.
The Witch Collector seems to understand my thoughts. His cheeks flush, and a strange kind of tender innocence fills his eyes. “Oh. Right.” He drops the tunic, sits back on his haunches, and studies my gown. After a moment, he snatches a pair of leathers from the pile—much like his own, though smaller and less worn—likely belonging to a boy who hoped to one day break them in. Another thought that makes my heart hurt yet also stokes my fury. With a toss, he says, “Slip these on and come here. I have an idea.”
He looks away, and I hurry into the bottoms. I wear breeches often, especially when working in the fields and orchards or when training with Hel. This pair is snug and a little long but otherwise perfect.
With my dress covering the leathers, I approach him, feeling awkward as he faces me and looks up, still on his widespread knees. All I can think of as I stare down at him is what I wouldn’t have given two days ago to be in this position. To be looming over him as he kneels before me, preferably with a weapon in my hand, a knife with a white marble hilt and bone blade. Now, I have to hope he lives, at least long enough to get me through Frostwater Wood.
As thoughts of murder dissipate, he pulls a blade from the sheath fashioned inside his boot and begins cutting a line up the middle of my skirts. It’s tedious work. The layers of wool and linen are thick and still partially waterlogged, despite my earlier efforts.
My mind tumbles back to thoughts of the God Knife. The Prince of the East vanished while it was in my hand, and when I got up to go to Mother, no one was around us, save for the Witch Collector, and he was dying. Had I even carried it with me then?
Gods, I need my memory to clear.
I study the Witch Collector’s body. His wide, wing-like back stretches the fabric of his tunic, tapering to a narrow waist. The material clings to him, not only because he fills the garment so completely, but also because a cool breeze plasters the linen to his skin. His long legs are folded under him, his leathers hugging every muscle and curve like asecond skin. I don’t see anywhere he could hide another knife, perhaps save for his other boot. There’s certainly no hidden belt beneath that shirt.
Did I have the God Knife around him? My mind’s last image of the weapon is the blade clenched in my hand, the bone dripping with the prince’s blood as he promised to one day kill me.
The Witch Collector sets his knife aside in the grass and stares at me, resting his hands on his knees. He’s made it halfway up my skirts.
“I’m trying to be gentle-mannered,” he says, “but sometimes a rough hand is best.”
I take a deep breath and glance at his work. Tears instantly sting the backs of my eyes, and I swallow the tightness forming in my throat. My mother made this dress for the harvest supper. She worked so hard harvesting the woad and extracting the dye. Other than her wooden dish, it’s all I have left of her.
“Do what you must, Witch Collector,” I sign, trying to keep my chin from quivering.
After a long moment, he nods once, then takes hold of the fabric on each side of the cut, and with a grunt, rips the layers clean to the bottom of the bodice. Stumbling under his strength, I grab his shoulders to steady myself, and he grips the backs of my thighs to keep me from falling.
Our eyes meet, and once again, I find myself too aware of him, of the taut muscles rounding his shoulders beneath my palms, the firm feel of his fingers clutching my legs, of how comforting it is to be close to another person right now.
Even him.
At the same time, we release one another as if we’d touched something scalding, pulling back as much as possible. The Witch Collector clears his throat, takes up his knife again, and begins separating my skirts from the bodice.
“Turn around?” he asks, and I obey.
My traitorous heart skips a beat, and my spine goes rigid when he slides his fingertips along the bare skin above my breeches. It’s such brief contact, but no man has ever touched me there. Except for Finn.
When the Witch Collector finishes, I’m fashionedin a way I think can’t be improved, but then he rises, picks up a pair of boots and hosen which he drops at my bare feet, and moves to stand behind me.
Still a little on edge around him, I glance back as he pushes my hair over my shoulder. His calloused fingertips brush my collarbone, sending a brutal chill along my arms as he begins loosening my laces.
“So you can breathe better,” he says, and I have to look away.
My breasts fall, and my lungs and ribs expand on a blissful inhale. At my back, however, he leans close. When he speaks, his warm breath grazes the curve of my neck, and it’s all I can do not to shiver.
“My name is Alexus. Alexus Thibault.NotWitch Collector.” He comes to face me and says it again, this time with his hands.
Cheeks burning, I sign his name, too. The feel of it is as odd on my fingertips as it would be on my tongue.
