“Bugger andfuck,” she muttered, standing. “Pack your things,” she ordered stiffly, not looking back at him as she slung her gun over her shoulder. “Time’s wasting.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The day unfolded like a wet wool blanket – mild, stifling, and gray. They trekked silently from the foothills on the forest’s edge through Rook Hollow, a narrow, mist-drenched valley, stumbling over mossy stones and fallen branches along the trickling stream beds. The birdsong was muted and the wind had gone shy. What sunlight penetrated the clouds could barely cut through the canopy of pine needles, leaving the Lichtenwald draped in a somber, misty twilight. The streams, like veins, drew them deeper. They were in the heart of the forest, now. Anya felt its pulse as her own.
She tied Johanna’s hat, depleted of berries, by its cord to the strap of her bag, enjoying the clouds while they lasted. She tried her damnedest to keep an even stride for Sy’s sake, but her legs, as if sensing their own limited time, outpaced her. Every few minutes, she forced herself to stop and let Sy catch up with her.
She did so now, waving eager gnats away from her eyes as she watched him approach. Somewhere along the way, he had found a small, short twig, and carried it lightly between his fingers. Unaware of being watched, he pressed his fingers to his closed mouth, then lowered the twig, pursed his lips, and exhaled slowly. She considered telling him the hunters at the lodge preferred chewing tobacco to cigarettes for its ease of use in the wild, but thought better of it. He’d only think she was insulting him and prickle up like a hedgehog.
As the morning mist lifted, the gray daylight made his pallor more pronounced. Alarmingly, he was somehow even palerthan when she first met him; almost like yellowed pages, worn and faded. She wondered what it felt like, losing so much blood, having none to spare. Needing to spare it. She had plenty, but she coveted hers. It wasn’t such an unusual thing to covet, your own blood. More unusual to part with it freely. Or…otherwise.
She pushed her sleeve aside to examine the small cut she had made earlier on her wrist. On impulse, she pressed her thumbnail into it until the pink flesh, just closed, split back open. A bright bead formed, ruby red. Red. A small sigh of relief escaped her.
Sy reached her. She let her sleeve fall.
When he caught her eye, his eyebrows arched playfully. “Tired already?”
After a morning of brooding silence, his sudden attempt at companionship baffled her almost as much as his words.
At her frown, the playful arch dipped, now inquisitive. “This is the longest you’ve stood still all morning.”
“Thought you could use the rest,” she said quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed her strange behavior.
“Keenly observed,” he muttered, hooking a lank bit of hair behind his earring. Despite the mild weather, his face dewed with sweat. Anya admitted a begrudging admiration that he hadn’t once complained. Granted, his silences did have their own way of making his feelings known.
She handed him the waterskin. “We’ve miles to go yet. At this pace, we may reach the meadow by nightfall.”
While he drank, she studied him. None of the other spellscribes had appeared as drained as he had been even before the bear nearly killed him. The memory of his gored back ripped through her. She had seen a great deal of torn flesh, animal and human, and torn much of it herself. And yet it continued to stun her how easily it tore. How all that held a body together was hardly any stronger than paper. Than the silk walls of a cocoon, wet and warm, pulsing.
Sy’s voice called her back. “That’s a charming bird. I’ve never seen one like it in the city. What is it called?”
It rankled her that he assumed getting her to talk about the forest would smooth over the tension between them. It rankled her more that he was correct.
When she spotted the small creature, vibrant red with a head and slim beak the dark color of congealed blood, her nose wrinkled. “A cherry wren.”
“Named for its color?”
“That,” she permitted, “and its diet.”
He handed back the waterskin, amused. “Not cherries, I take it?”
“Any fruit, so long as it’s on the ground, rotting. Apricots. Plums. The organs of dead animals.” His brow creased, and she winked. “Shocking how a rabbit’s heart resembles a cherry in the right light.”
His frown deepened to a grimace. “Ah.”
“Everything has its role,” she said, not unkindly. “Death has to go somewhere, just like life. It’s the lingering that spreads foulness. Our disgusting little friend up there does us a favor.”
He considered the small bird, which had begun to sing prettily. “I suppose I hadn’t thought of it that way before.”
Stepping forward, she tossed her braid over her shoulder. “Why would you? In the city, there’s someone paid pennies to keep anything foul from your sight.”
“In certain quarters,” he conceded after a long, loaded pause. She’d offended him. But…he hadn’t prickled. Ruffled, more like. He seemed to shrug it off. “Less so in others. Cherry wrens would be a marked improvement, but I suppose the rats will have to do.”
“I find rats to be quite noble creatures, despite their reputation.”
“Don’t you think they’d prefer feathers, if given the choice?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not a rat.”
