I raised my eyes to her, and though the admission frightened me, I could not deny her. “A fox,” I rasped. “What does it mean?”
She cast her eyes aside. “It means nothing. You should leave.”
She was slipping away. My chest ached with a need for understanding. Of the marks, of why I was drawn to her. Of why she knew more about me than I knew about myself. “How do you know about the marks?”
“I read,” she said. “You need to leave, Neirin.”
“Wait,” I said, desperate to keep her near hastening my actions, moving me without thought. I stepped after her and grabbed her wrist.
She spun on me, and I nearly ran into her. Chest to chest, I breathed in her scent. She smelled like belonging, like home.
“Let me go.” She bit the words out. There was such disdain in her tone, such harshness.
I released her immediately, heart pounding, and took a step back. Bile rose in my throat, for I’d done exactly as the cobbler had—forced my touch when she did not want it. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Leave,” she hissed. “Just … leave.”
16
NEIRIN
The woman’sanger stayed with me long after I left her by the stables. I finished my task of bringing crates into the inn, yet no longer did I take comfort in being outdoors or in the woodsy scent that hung in the air. With each breath I drew, her words weighed down on me more.Leave. Just leave.
Of course, I could not. Despite the strangest sense of push and pull the woman drew from me, there were other things at play, things greater than her and me. Placing the last of the crates in the inn’s kitchen beside the stairs where Maerel had instructed, I stood and let my hood fall back. Running a hand through my hair, I took note of the locks that stood up on end and frowned.
Maerel came from the split doors and placed soiled dishes on the tabletop. “Is that all of it?” She nodded to the stack of crates.
“Yes,” I said, huffing the response on a breath as I dropped my hand, forfeiting my negligent attempts at flattening the stray strands atop my head. The downturned corners of my mouth deepened. “Is my hair unsightly?”
Maerel narrowed her eyes. “Flattery lands me a better chance at your—”
“Nothing lands you a chance at that,” I quipped.
Maerel considered, then pulled the wine crate out from under the table and removed the last few bottles. Setting them on the table, she turned the crate upside down. “Right. Over here, then.”
I shot her a questioning look.
“Before the men at the bar start calling out for more drinks,” she said, impatience in her tone. Again, she gestured to the crate.
“Do you know how to trim hair?” I asked. I took the offered seat, and she leaned in, bracing an arm on the table behind my head. I narrowed my eyes, but she only winked and, searching beneath the tabletop, withdrew a dagger. “You keep a dagger strapped beneath your kitchen table?” Oddly, I wasn’t entirely surprised.
“Among other places,” she said.
“You did not answer my question,” I pointed out. Thoughts of the willful innkeeper taking a dagger to my head further shook my nerves. I sucked in my lips. Was a tidier appearance truly worth it?
She huffed. “Well, anyone could do a better job than you’ve done.”
I made a low, disgruntled huff but objected no further. As she worked, my thoughts swirled from my brother to the woman with the cinnamon hair, to the certain price on my head, and then back to Harlan’s fate should I not discover the threat at play before it was too late.
“Do you always scowl?” Maerel asked. A clump of my hair fell to the floor.
“Just around you,” I retorted, rolling my shoulders.
Maerel scoffed. “Stop fidgeting.”
I stilled. And, sitting atop a crate in a kitchen and being mothered, a pang of homesickness struck my heart. If Nyana were here, she would give me guidance. I missed her. “Maerel,” I said, hesitant. “Women are—” I sighed, letting my vulnerabilityshow was discomforting. As were the unrelenting thoughts of the woman from the festival. “They baffle me.”
“All women baffle you, or one in particular?”
