‘It’s obvious that we can’t trust Thom,’ she whispers, and I agree.
He must have a reason of his own to reach Elgin, one motivated by something starker than coin. And he doesn’t trust us either. When the Bard asked him about our destination, referring to something called ‘a map’ that draws out the course we’ll follow, Thom merely mentioned a few cities we will pass through, eager to change the subject.
‘We should kill him,’ I propose.
Two sets of widened eyes look at me, and I’m too tired to argue.
In the end, we agree to lose him on the road, find an excuse to get him off the carriage, and leave him behind. This feels neater to both of them; nicer, for some reason.
Begrudgingly, I accept.
We’ll only be postponing our problem for another day, but so be it.
Now our breaths mingle in the small room, a cloud of drinks and doom and obfuscation. The Bard slumps on the bench without much ado, using his pouch as a pillow, eager to get some sleep before our trip tomorrow. I remove my cloak and sit on the bed, studying his face from afar, while Anassa frets from door to window, a frantic bird checking the escape routes.
We’re all worn out by this day, showing it in different ways. And for all my yearning to take out my knife, slice the Bard’s throat as he seeks his slumber, I’m beginning to appreciate his presence. His cunning. Earlier, when we waited for Anassa to show signs of life, when we had no choice but to start sharing information with each other, he told me ‘Marlowe’ is a rival of his. ‘Of sorts,’ he added with a chuckle. But he used his rival’s name to introduce himself, in case the people here look for us after we’re gone. And he gave us fake names too, for protect—
‘Will you stop doing that,’ I hiss at Anassa as she keeps pacing. ‘The floors are noisy. Anyone keeping an eye or ear on us will hear it. Don’t make them wonder why we’re so anxious we can’t stay put.’
She bites her lips, but nods and says nothing. Instead, she heads to her side of the bed and lies down, with her back turned on me.
Great. I’ve spent all day worrying sick whether she’ll wake up, whether I’d lost her, and now I scold her like a child instead of offering assurances. This place has us all twisted taut, ready to snap at the smallest provocation.
I don’t regret killing that man in the woods. Crinan. He meant us ill, in more ways than one. But his sister took us in and gave us food and dresses and kind smiles, and now I feel his death like a dark ichor, clinging on me, staining my spirit. I lie back in bed too, trying to ignore Anassa. The closeness of her back, her shoulders rising and falling as she breathes in stilted waves, clearly too wound up for sleep. When she whisked me here, when she opened that door in Shepherd’s realm, I thought things would be different. That it would be the two of us, free from feline goddesses and flying daggers, from harsh words. From the Bard.
I even gave my key away, that’s how stupidly hopeful I was.
I should have known better. Anywhere we go, in any realm, danger follows hot on our heels. I cast a sideways glance at her, at the dark river of her hair pooling behind her on the pillow. My little brittle blackbird has hatched a complicated plan, if what the Bard told me in whispered words is true. A plan to help a queen escape her fate, because she thinks her to be some version of herself, some purer part that might need saving. The people in this village beg to differ.
I sigh, turning on my side as well, trying to keep as much distance between us as this tiny bed allows. It seems like distance is what Anassa desires. Fine. I close my eyes, going through all the things that could go wrong, now and later. Mary discovering her brother’s death, wanting revenge. That Thom fellow betraying us on the road before we can get rid of him, leaving us stranded or worse. But even if we reach our destination, even if this queen agrees to see us, what if Anassa can’t convince her to come with us – wherever she plans to take us next? And the Bard … The Bard is here to help us, he said. I believe that. He stayed at Anassa’s bedside for hours, watching her with the worry of a father, eyebrows furrowed. He paid for our clothes, our room, our meals. Yet I can see Shepherd’s influence on him like a well-stretched spiderweb, allowing the fly to believe it acts on its own accord until it’s too late to escape.
And as his rhythmic snoring from the bench cuts through the night, lulling my senses till my own breath evens out, I can’t help but think that we’re all flies.
When I wake up, the bed is empty.
‘Anassa?’ I whisper, soft as I can. It’s still pitch dark. Perhaps she’s up again, pacing or looking out the window for perceived threats in the night. But the Bard’s snoring and his sleep ramblings are the only sounds I hear. I wait a few moments, hoping she comes back, trying not to panic. Where could she be? She doesn’t know this world more than I do; she wouldn’t get a head start without us. Would she?
My heart does its own desperate dance again, beating so fast I can feel my ribcage quaking, the cavern of my chest threatening to collapse and bury me. Was she taken? I haveto find her. I get up, flinching at every sound I make. Yet the Bard still sleeps, unbothered – and it dawns on me I also must have slept soundly. Too soundly to even hear the door opening and closing. There can’t have been a fight at least; she must have left of her own accord. I put on my cloak and hurry through the door as quiet as I can, only realizing I forgot my boots when I am halfway down the stairs already. It doesn’t matter. If anything, I move more quietly this way. I reach the dining hall, all swept clean and empty now, as it was when we first arrived. She’s not here. What do I do? The outer door is so noisy there’s no way I can open it without Mary, without someone, hearing it. Probably made on purpose that way, to announce visitors coming and going, stop people from sneaking out of this hospitable hall like thieves in the night. I consider going back and waking up the Bard. Maybe he’ll know where she –
A sound, like a glass bottle bumping on to something, followed by the softest curse.
Anassa.
I follow the direction of the sound, daring behind the bench and into the room Mary prepares the food in. No sign of her, thankfully. But no Anassa either. A lantern, like the one we used for Crinan’s last rites, sits on a stool in the middle, its modest flame both accusing me of trespassing and allowing me to look around. Metal contraptions that seem to be used to warm up water on the hearth, or mix grains into a semi-liquid sludge, are left unattended, as if waiting patiently for their labours to begin anew. An open door across from me, leads to a hallway packed with heavy bags of grain and other round roots, like the sweet ones we ate with meat for supper.Must be a storage space for these people’s food. Could Anassa be hiding there?
It feels as if I’ve joined the oddest hunt, tossed in a baffling labyrinth where the walls are all uneven shapes and the smells are strange and potent, searching for the only creature that makes sense, hoping that she won’t tear my heart to pieces with her teeth.
Not so different from being in Shepherd’s realm, in that sense.
Another sound, like a door struggling on its hinges, coming from somewhere far ahead of me. Yes, she must be in that storage room. Taking the lantern with me, I explore the narrow space, packed to the brim with foods I’ve never seen before, my hair brushing on dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. Further down the hallway, grooves on the walls support all kinds of bottles, the potent scent of barley and something else – apple? – bringing the drinks we had to mind. Bottles … What was that sound, earlier? A glass bottle …
I look at the row in front of me more carefully. Sure enough, one is missing. A slow heat spreads on my face, my ears, my neck. Here I am running after her, worried she might have fainted again or that some kind of ill has befallen her, while Anassa is raiding cabinets at night, to drown her worries in this drink … I should go back to bed. I really should.
But my curiosity, if not my worry, doesn’t ease. Pointing the lantern all around me in a circle, I see only two paths: the one that leads back where I came from … and a door ahead. She can’t have gone any other way without me seeing her. Gritting my teeth, I open that door and a cold wind from Tartaros attacks me.
It takes me a few seconds to understand what’s happening, that there is nothing strange or mystical about this door. I’m not in another realm – I’m just outside. A back entrance, it seems, leading to a walled-in courtyard open to the stars above. It’s cold, but not as cold as that forest, and with a wool dress underneath my cloak this time, I find it’s almost bearable. The ground has hardened from the cold, but it doesn’t burn to walk on, like the snow did.
To my left, a small vegetable patch lined with assorted greenery leads to a small hut. Could she … No. The hut’s small even for me, let alone Anassa. Plus, the smell … I wrinkle my nose. A chicken coop, probably. I point my lantern to the other side instead, where the walls are penned in. Stables. On the far side, near the gate that opens to the road, the carriage looms, horseless. I flinch at the thought of Crinan driving it to the forest, of me driving it back after killing him. Killing my husband gave me much less of a headache, as it turns out. I found it easier when I had ten years to wrap my plan and my heart in steel, remind myself of the monstrosities that man had perpetrated, than acting on instinct, in self-defence.
