He knelt beside her and began undoing the bandage. His touch careful and reserved.
She tilted her head. “You’re quiet this morning.”
“So are you.” He returned, pressing the cool cloth to her shoulder with deft movements. He refused to linger or be indulgent.
“You’re… different,” she said finally.
“It’s morning,” he said simply. “Mornings are different.”
“Is that so?”
He finished the knot and stood. She watched him adjust the straps on his pack, standing carefully, testing her ribs.
“So. Rither Hollow,” she named their next destination.
He nodded. “If we leave within the hour, we’ll reach the edge before dark.”
“And if we don’t?”
“There’s a chance we’ll be sleeping in the open.”
She reached to the sky, stretching her pained muscles. “Sounds familiar.”
She caught him looking at her then, just a flicker, just a breath, but found it all the same. When he realized she’d noticed, he looked away. The sound of laces tightening, of water pouring into flasks, of boots scraping stone. All practical.
But as she slung her bag over her uninjured shoulder, she said, without looking at him, “You didn’t sleep much either?”
“No.”
“Because of the storm?”
He paused and adjusted his coat. “Something like that.”
She gave a short nod. Let it rest.
But as they stepped into the cold morning light, she walked just a little nearer to his side than she needed to. Not quite touching.
And he let her.
They rode from the chapel on a narrow and wet path, the soil soft beneath the horses’ hooves. The rain had lessened to a fine drizzle, beading on their cloaks and soaking into the earth. They didn’t speak for some time. Ilys watched the way Death rode, one hand loose on the reins, the other resting against the saddle horn. He didn’t fidget. He never fidgeted. He moved with careful economy, as if the body he wore were on loan and might break beneath the wrong gesture.
The rain caught in his lashes. A dark curl teased his eyebrow.Unfair, she thought, shifting in the saddle.To look like that and not know it.
When they reached a bend in the trail that overlooked a low field scattered with bare trees, Death slowed his horse and looked over. “We’ll stop here for a rest.”
Ilys dismounted stiffly, wincing as her boots hit the ground. Her body sang with complaint, each muscle sore, each joint tight. She stretched her arms overhead, hissing softly when her shoulder pulled.
“Don’t overdo it,” Death said without looking at her, already tying his horse to a low-hanging branch.
“I can’t very well ride hunched like a crone all day,” she argued, wiggling her fingers out toward the misty horizon.
“You’d frighten fewer people.”
“I frighten enough.”
A flicker of a smile.
She stepped off the trail a little, behind a bramble of shrubs, and took care of what needed doing, quickly and quietly. Whenshe returned, Death had spread his cloak on a dry patch of grass and knelt beside the packs, preparing the salve again. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, and the muscles there flexed with each small movement of his hands.
