As I dismount, I squint up and down the sandy street for a puff of smoke but find none. When Morrgot doesn’t want to be seen, he’s eerily inconspicuous. At least, I won’t have to worry about being caught with a crow.
I loop the reins over Furia’s neck just as the front door swings open and out strides a man with a smile full of crooked teeth and skin as brown and brittle as rye bread. His expression draws my gaze away from his leathery skin.
I didn’t realize how much I missed genuine smiles until I find myself gaping at this friendly, open face. I quickly glance over my shoulder to make certain I’m its recipient before letting myself return it.
Breathing easier than I have in days, I say, “You must be Sewell.”
He tips his head to the side of the house, to a little alley that separates his wall from his neighbor’s. I lead Furia into the narrow passageway that smells dank—of piss and seaweed and grit. Where a chilly humidity drapes across Racocci winter like summer, here the air is hot and muggy.
A bucket of water awaits Furia, as well as a bale of hay. My horse—yes, Furia feels like mine—tugs frantically to reach it, but with deft hands that are as sun-browned as the rest of him, Sewell, works the halter off Furia’s head.
Guilt swarms me as I realize I never thought to remove the metal bar or the saddle back at the oasis.
Sewell drapes the reins over a stubby tree that looks as desiccated as this place and its people, then proceeds to remove Furia’s saddle, revealing layers of frothy sweat and sticky sand. All of this is done in silence. He hoists another bucket from what I assume must be a well, because there’s a system of ropes and pulleys, and showers Furia, who shakes himself dry, nickering happily, head buried in his bucket of hay.
Sewell stands back and watches him. “What a beautiful creature.”
I nod my agreement.
“I imagine you desire a bath as well.”
I lick my parched lips, darting a glance toward the well.
Sewell laughs. “Relax, Signorina, I wasn’t contemplating tossing a bucket to wash you down.”
In all honesty, I’m not sure I’d have minded it all that much. I don’t voice this, afraid he may swap a long soak for a brief spray.
He leads me through the back door of his house. Right as he shuts the door, I say, “We forgot to tie up Furia.”
“That horse isn’t going anywhere.” He sounds so certain that I imagine Morrgot told him he mind-controls the animal.
Unlike the man on the horse from earlier, Sewell doesn’t have an accent. Or at least, not a strong one. He doesn’t roll hisRs or drag out hisSs as much as I do, but I attended a Tarecuorin school, so I learned to speak like the Fae nobility.
“Thank you for harboring me for the day,” I say as I look around his house that is sparser than mine.
There are no flowers, no seashells, no plethora of wicker baskets hooked to the wall or hand-stitched curtains. It’s a man’s house, I think, although I could be wrong. He could be sharing it with a woman who doesn’t have any time or interest to decorate.
“It’s an honor.”
I note he uses the word honor instead of pleasure, as though I’m someone worthy. He must have a lot of respect for Morrgot.
Sewell fills a glass with water from a pitcher and hands it to me. “I’ve got biscuits. They’re a little dry but filling. Would you like some?”
“I’d love a biscuit.” Like Furia, I greedily gulp down my water, then wolf down three biscuits and another glass of water.
The man is still smiling at me, and I’m suddenly hit by a bolt of guilt. What if I ate his daily ration?
The man sinks into a bow, which draws my eyebrows together. I’m about to tell him I’m not yet queen when smoke drifts through the rafters and hardens into the shape of a bird.
“Sire, it’s been too long.”
Morrgot must tell him to rise, because Sewell straightens from his inclined posture.
“Yes. Both are ready. Come.” He ushers me through the only other door, into a room that’s a little smaller than mine, made even more so by the presence of a copper tub beside the bed.
Clapboard blinds obstruct the window, pushing the sun away, and yet the heat is already stifling. The sun must bake these houses to a crisp at noon. Morrgot perches himself on the wooden bedframe.
“Can I bring you anything, sire?”
