“For your feet…” I cast around, spying a pair of fur boots that must have been worn by one of the unfortunate fae.
Crossing the distance, I assess their size. Only slightly too big for her. They’ll have to do until I take her to the palace.
When I hand them to her, she promptly crouches, turns the shoes upside down, and whacks them hard on the ground. Only after peering into each of them does she finally slide them onto her feet.
“What creature do you fear might be lurking in those boots?”
“Spiders.” She raises herself back to her full height. “I’m not afraid of them, but I don’t want to be bitten.”
Fair.
“My hands?” she asks, clearly a demand this time.
I incline my head at the Alak-Teahan cloak with a self-satisfied smile. “Check the sleeves.”
She tugs on the wadding at her wrists and quickly discovers the edges are folded up.
Rolling the folds down reveals the pouches the sleeves form at their ends. Makeshift mittens.
She promptly tucks her hands into them. “Better.”
Now that she’s warm, I take another step back. I pause there for a moment in case she’s ready to tell me what I need to know, but the purse of her lips indicates: not yet.
It isn’t a problem. My feet are still bare, and I need toretrieve my swords. Even so, it’s hard to pull my gaze away from her and focus on my belongings, where they lie on the rocks, out in the open now that the cocoon is gone.
I pull my boots back on but hesitate to pick up my swords.
Retrieving the blades could agitate the Alak-Teah.
Crouching beside my weapons, I peer intently into the mist, watching for any reaction. Listening for any hint of clicking or hissing that might indicate agitation.
“They won’t mind,” Thyra says from across the short space between us.
I cast her a doubtful glance. “Why not?”
“Because they know I won’t let you hurt them.”
I nearly guffaw, but she returns my gaze with steely determination as she closes the gap between us.
Her Lethian armor is now completely hidden beneath the webbing; not a single silver strand is coiled up in her hair, allowing her tresses to fall around her shoulders.
As she moves, she pulls the long strands across her right shoulder, winding them and leaving a thick coil to fall down her chest.
I study her carefully for the seconds it takes her to reach me, aware of how agile she is. Now that she isn’t freezing to death.
Days ago, when I first saw her, she was dripping wet and shivering, her heartbeats heavy with physical pain and grief at losing her father. When I came upon her in the bloodlands, she was bleeding to death.
Both times, she was deeply vulnerable for reasons out of her control.
I should have remembered the moments when I was wrenched away from myself, and I saw her on a rooftop in the Iron Kingdom. She was fighting with all her strength to get away from Antony, pulling on the chain that bound her to him.
She was succeeding. Despite his strength, she was getting away from him.
I’m pleased when my cold smile doesn’t keep her away from me now.
But I’m disconcerted when she pulls the mitten away from her right hand again and raises her fingertips to my face.
She pauses. “If you want to retrieve your swords, you should first wipe away the blood.”
