Somewhere nearby, a door opens and closes. Voices drift out and then fade again.
“What do you want it to be?”
I stare at him. My heart is beating too fast, and I don’t know what to say, only that I can’t stand this … this distance, this not knowing what is going to happen to me.
“I don’t know. But not this.” It sounds lame to my own ears.
He’s quiet for a moment longer, then he moves, coming closer until I have to tip my head back.
“I’m not ignoring you because you don’t matter,Moirthalen.” His voice drops, soft enough that only I can hear it. “I’m ignoring you because I don’t know what to do with you.”
“What doesthatmean?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “It means you surprised me. I expected you to leave, and you didn’t.”
“Is that a problem?”
“It’s a … complication.”
I don’t know what to say to that. He’s close enough now that I can smell him, that forest scent that lingers on his skin, and it brings back the memory of last night so sharply I have to take a breath to steady myself.
“Then what happens now?”
“I don’t know.” He reaches out, and I still as his fingers brush my jaw in the lightest of touches. “Not yet, anyway.”
Then he turns and walks into the inn.
I stay where I am until the sky turns dark and the air turns cold, replaying the feel of his fingers on my jaw, and the softness of his voice.
I don’t know.
Eventually the cold wins, and I return to my room on the top floor of the inn, where sleep comes slowly, and I dream of gold eyes, and forest rain, and a name I can’t share with anyone.
When I wake, light is creeping through the window, and the bed is empty apart from me. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, and will myself not to think about why that bothers me so much. Then I get up, wash my face, and pull on the same green dress I wore yesterday.
Sharla is behind the counter when I go downstairs. I walk over to her and wait until she looks up.
“I want something to do. I don’t care what it is. Give me anything.”
She lifts one eyebrow. “Ever peeled a potato?”
“No. But I can learn.”
Amusement flares in her eyes. “All right then. The kitchen is through there. The potatoes are in a barrel near the door. Don’t cut yourself.”
And so I spend the day learning how to peel potatoes. The first ones come out mangled, more scraps than potato, but the cook just hands me another and tells me to try again. By early afternoon, I’ve moved on to carrots, then washing dishes.
It’s menial work. The kind of work servants in the palace do while I never thought to thank them. My back aches. My feet hurt. There’s a blister forming on my thumb. And it feelsgood.
When the light starts to fade, Sharla appears at my elbow.
“You should stop for the day. Eat something, then rest.”
I look up, startled. “Same time tomorrow?”
She studies me, giving me that same assessing look she gave me this morning.
“If you want.”
