Corabeth stood again, looked at Rooke, and nodded. At this, Rooke leaned closer to Ely and said, “Run!”
Confused, Ely looked from Rooke to Corabeth to Rooke again, his sobbing subsiding for a moment.
“Go,” Corabeth said, “he has given you a chance to run.”
Ely scrambled to his feet, although it took several tries. The snow was slippery under his feet, and his limbs wobbly from the fear. All at once, he sprinted off towards the woods from which they had come from.
Rooke looked after him, a familiar animalistic glint in his eyes.
Corabeth stepped up, pressed a quick kiss on his lips, and said, “Happy hunting.”
Then, Rooke was gone.
Twenty-two
Corabeth
Corabeth moved around the house, stoking the fires in the library, dining room, kitchen, and her own room. Then she set about preparing her dinner. She sipped on a cup of chamomile tea while she waited for the food to cook, enjoying the glow of the fire and the aromas wafting in the kitchen.
Somewhere in the frosty forest, a man was stumbling and running and stumbling again. In the darkness behind him, a shadow lurked, taking its pleasure in the thrill of the hunt, relishing the stench of pure fear in the crisp winter air.
One by one, the fires died down, leaving the rooms pleasantly warm. Corabeth drifted from room to room, but no book or activity could hold her attention. Her entire self was focused on the moment of Rooke’s return.
She was sitting on the steps of the grand staircase when Rooke finally let himself in. He stomped the snow from his boots, brushed the frozen flakes from his cloak, and hung it up. Then he turned his gaze to the waiting Corabeth.
“Is it done?” she asked, not getting up.
“Yes,” Rooke replied. The answer sent a jolt of satisfaction through Corabeth.
She stood and walked down the remaining steps to meet Rooke at the bottom of the stairs, stopping on the last step to be of height with the man before her.
Rooke eyed her curiously, tilting his head as he was wont to do. “Are you alright?” he asked and placed a tentative hand on her waist.
The breath of winter still lingered around Rooke as Corabeth took him in. His long, black hair was loose, his complexion pale, eyes dark and beady. Seemingly, nothing had changed. He was still perfectly Rooke. Nothing gave away what had happened.
Almostnothing.
In the corners of his lips were flakes of dried blood.
“I thought I’d feel something,” Corabeth admitted and wiped the corners of Rooke’s mouth with her thumb absentmindedly. “Regret or horror. Shame, maybe.”
“And do you?” Rooke asked, watching her carefully.
Corabeth shook her head and looked into the bottomless pits of Rooke’s eyes. “I just feel relief that it’s done. That there’s one less Fabel in the world. That you won’t have to starve and we’re one step closer to breaking your curse.”
Rooke released a breath, his shoulders relaxing noticeably. He snaked his arms around Corabeth’s waist and buried his face into her hair, breathing in her scent.
“I half expected you to be hysterical on my return. From grief or…”
“Remorse?” Corabeth offered. “It’s odd. I can name all of the emotions I should be feeling, but I can’t bring myself to feel them.”
Corabeth wrapped her arms around Rooke, the mistress holding her weapon, with a tenderness she hadn’t felt for anybody. Slowly, winter released its grip on Rooke, and he became warmer in Corabeth’s arms.
After a long moment, he released her and grabbed hold of her hand instead as they walked up the stairs. The day had been a long and taxing one for both of them—Corabeth felt theexhaustion emotionally, while Rooke had been in the forest for hours.
They halted in the hall above the stairs where the second floor split off into the left and right wings. Corabeth’s room was in the left wing, and although she had never been to Rooke’s room, she knew it was somewhere in the right wing.
They faced each other, and Rooke looked down at their still joined hands.
