We ride until the sun begins to set.
Ignoring Fox’s outstretched hand, I slide clumsily down from Cedar’s back and wince as my feet hit the ground. My whole body feels bruised.
‘Are you hungry?’
I hesitate, leaning heavily against the trunk of an ash tree, trying to work out why an admission of hunger feels tantamount to a declaration of weakness.
‘A little,’ I concede at last, combing my fingers through my tangled curls.
‘How about I find us some food while you wash up in the Creek?’ Fox suggests.
I frown, waiting for the catch. That’s the problem with the Earth Cleaver – he’s not an easy person to trust. He’s not especially kind either.
As if on cue, he changes tack. ‘My apologies, that sounded like a suggestion, but really it was a request. Look at the state of you. Do us both a favour and bathe.’
I glower at him before heading off towards the sound of running water.
‘Wait,’ Fox calls, rummaging in his satchel before tossing me a bar of soap and a spare change of clothes.
I hold up the shirt. ‘I don’t want your clothes. I have my own.’
‘Yes, and they’re filthy.’
‘So I’ll wash them,’ I bite back, irritated.
‘And what will you wear while you wait for them to dry?’ Fox asks innocently. ‘Forgive me,Your Majesty, but I always considered you the modest type. Though do feel free to prove me wrong.’
A furious blush blooms across my cheeks.
‘Fine,’ I spit, tucking the bundle under my arm and ducking through the trees.
I glance back in time to see Fox untacking Cedar, chuckling quietly to himself as the horse nuzzles his shoulder, as if the two of them were sharing some private joke.
The Creek is a welcome sight, the water bracingly cold. It soothes the angry fire-ant stings peppered along my spine. I scrub myself clean as best I can, then pull on the borrowed set of clothes, rolling up the trousers and rolling my eyes at the low-cut shirt.
Shivering a little, I return to the camp and drape my own clothes over a branch to dry.
Fox appears several minutes later. He takes in the sight of me, tilting his head in apparent bemusement. ‘Any particular reason why you’re wearing that shirt back to front?’
I glance down. ‘Oh, I thought I’d try something new. Why? Do you like it?’
Fox blinks, taken aback. ‘I … I mean …’ He clears his throat uncomfortably, seemingly at a loss for words. That’s when he notices my withering expression. ‘As the future Queen of the Waterlands, you certainly have a very dry sense of humour, Storm Weaver,’ he remarks. ‘What’s your quarrel with my shirt? Not quite to your taste?’
I run a finger along the slightly fraying hem. ‘Whileyouclearly have a liking for shirts that gape open practically to your midriff –’
He scoffs. ‘Hardly.’
‘– I’d really rather not wander around only half-dressed,’ I finish scathingly.
A grin slides on to his face. ‘Well, I for one wouldn’t be complaining.’
I scowl darkly. ‘Remind me again why I agreed to stay with you?’
Fox shakes his head fondly. ‘Storm Weaver, most girls would trade just about anything for a mere hour of my company.’
‘That I very much doubt, unless they’d paid a visit to the Mage in Zafar. I imagine I would find your company entirely tolerable, provided I could neither hear nor see you.’
His grin widens, and he tosses his satchel down at my feet. ‘I brought you something.’
