She felt Death’s eyes on her now, heavy and unblinking. Needy.
“How can they celebrate,” she asked, “when three towns away there is slaughter?”
He swung down from his mare in one fluid motion. “Right,” he said shortly, then turned back to her. “Get down.”
“There’s light still, we could make more distance—”
“No.” The single word snapped like a whip. He seized Spire’s reins. “We stop here.”
“What are you doing?” she demanded, pulse quickening.
“Rewriting a memory.”
She stared at him, heat licking her skin at his gaze. Then, she swung a leg over the saddle and let herself drop to the earth, wandering over through the warm bodies chattering, laughing, and singing. Morbidly fascinated by the cool contrast to what she had witnessed other warm bodies commit just a day before, she inhaled every detail.
Children held hands in a lazy circle, turning the wheel of their form. High pitched giggles floated towards her and it pinched her tired heart. She missed Hanna.
Enthralled with the scene, she crept towards the table filled with clay cups frothing with amber liquid. She sniffed the drink suspiciously and, not finding it too unkind to her nose, lifted it todrink deeply. Wheat and honey slid down her throat, loosening her spirit.
The music shifted to a brighter, faster sound. A couple broke into the center of the circle, spinning and stamping in perfect time. Another pair followed, and another, until the space grew crowded with cheers and clapping.
Then the crowd parted. Ilys stood alone at the edge of the square, the only one not yet called to the center. A daring smile ghosted across her face as she stepped forward.
The fiddler caught sight of her and changed his tune to match her pace, quick, untamed. She began to turn, hesitant at first, then faster, her skirts snapping around her legs. The crowd whooped. Ilys clapped to the beat, spinning until the air burned in her chest.
When she caught sight of him at the edge of the light, she stopped, hair falling wild about her face, breath ragged. Death watched her, still as stone. A laugh slipped from her, sharp and strange in her own ears. She turned again, this time toward him, daring him to move, to stop her, to do anything but watch. And he did watch—hungrily—as though she had been meant for this moment all along.
Before she could think better of it, a laughing woman grabbed Ilys’s hands and spun her into the circle. They whirled together, skirts and hair flying, the crowd clapping in time. The music quickened, wild and bright, pulling Ilys along until she perched breathless.
Then a man stepped forward, catching her by the waist and sweeping her off her feet. For a dizzying instant she flew, suspended in the hot air of the square, before he set her back down with care, one of his hands firm on her waist and the other clasping her palm. He guided her through the dance, prancing her from one end of the circle to the other, each turn sharp, each step sure. The crowd whooped and stomped along, delighted bythe spectacle. Ilys giggled; an unguarded, surprised sound that startled her even as it left her mouth.
Death still watched, offering a small smile that softened the hard lines of his face until he looked almost lovely. The music built, rising higher and higher until it ended in a screeching, triumphant note. The man twirled her once more, then released her, bowing with exaggerated flourish before jogging off to join his friends.
Ilys stood in the center of the square, flushed and laughing, her chest heaving. And Death remained, still at the edge of the crowd, still watching her. The revel was her stage, and he her only audience.
Death cut through the revelers with long, unhurried strides, his gaze never leaving hers. When he reached her, he leaned close enough that she could feel the ghost of his breath.
“Come,” he said, low, meant for her alone. “You must feel starved.”
He took her wrist and steered her through the crowd. The dancers parted easily for him, some still laughing, some still watching her as though they expected the dance to continue. The square’s edge opened into a table spread with more clay cups of cider, steamed cacao, dark loaves, sugared pastries, and puddings glossy under the lantern light.
Ilys ignored the drinks, still too breathless to think of anything warm. Her hand closed around one of the puddings, cool and heavy, and she scooped a bite past her lips. The taste was a revelation. The sweet balanced with bitter in a soft-as-cream texture, while the grit of chocolate caught at her teeth. A satisfied moan escaped her, unguarded and soft and she forgot herself. When she glanced up, Death watched her with a look that warmed and unsettled her all at once.
“What?” she asked, her tone too sharp, defensive against the way her chest fluttered.
“Nothing.” His mouth curved, laggard and amused. “I can tell it suits you.”
He reached forward without asking, his thumb grazing her chin. When he drew back, a smear of chocolate glistened against the pad of his thumb. He didn’t wipe it away. Instead, holding her gaze, he brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked it clean, leisurely savoring.
Heat flared up her throat, her pulse stumbling, reminded of their encounter in the bathhouse.
“Saving some for later?” His voice dropped lower now, almost mocking, as though daring her to answer.
Ilys could think of no banter. She dropped the spoon back into the empty cup and turned away, but not before she caught the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, dark and satisfied, as though he had just won a game she hadn’t realized they were playing.
When she tore her eyes from Death, her gaze snagged on a scene near the edge of the revel. A young woman, barely more than a girl, with dark braids coiled tight against her head and a garland of faded flowers slipping down one side. Her dress once dyed a cheerful yellow, now molded to her form, muddied, spattered with dirt where she had been pushed against the pole. Her cheeks were already flushed from dancing, but fear had turned the color sharp and blotchy.
The man who gripped her loomed broad through the shoulders, his belly pressing against the seams of a stained jerkin. Blond hair clung to his scalp in greasy knots, his beard catching the lantern light like wire spun from filth. He had her trapped with one hand fisted in her bodice, tugging at the laces hard enough to bruise. She tried to twist away, still polite even in her refusal, murmuring words meant to soothe. But when she shoved him and snapped, his response was a ringing slap that cracked across her face.
