Bellamy jumps in place. “What?”
“You’re staring at me like you want something.”
“Sorry.” Bellamy fiddles with his bootlaces. “I just don’t know a lot about your, um. Profession. I know it must be difficult. I mean, it’s an honest living—”
A smirk lights up Teodor’s tired face. “Not the way I do it.”
“Um. Right.” Bellamy hesitates but continues when Teodor neither says anything else nor tells Bellamy to get lost. “I guess I was just wondering how you avoid, um. Developing feelings, after intimacy?”
“No, we’re not doing this.” Teodor rolls his eyes when Bellamy stares in confusion. “First, I don’t give advice for free. Second, what works for me won’t work for you. Merry would happily give you three hours of advice, but what works for himdefinitelywon’t work for you. So, whatever you’re trying to figure out, figure it out on your own.”
The kettle whistles. Teodor leans forward to pull it from the fire.
“Actually, that’s pretty good advice,” Bellamy says after a moment.
Teodor grimaces. “Ugh. I guess it is.”
***
A week later, Bellamy sprawls across two bedrolls, a pile of leafy branches in front of him. He offered to make Merry flower crowns for the bloodmasque, out of guilt for ruining his flute with Sandry magic. Today, he finally has a moment alone to mage-craft a few crowns. Handcrafting would be as disastrous as the necklaces he once made for his brothers.
The caravan is parked outside a river town for the afternoon, and half the travelers have gone into town to resupply. Rakos left too, breaking off from the group before reaching the drasgard waystation outside town. He’s far more interested in avoiding scrutiny than Bellamy is.
Bellamy found that convenient at first, since he’s also trying to avoid recognition as a wayward prince of Silaise. But he’s starting to find it strange for a simple farmer to be so afraid of recognition. Sure, tax evasion is illegal, and Draskoran justice is barbaric. But would drasgard across the country really recognize Rakos?
Maybe that’s Bellamy’s princely privilege talking. Audric would tell him not to make assumptions like this.
Leaves scatter from Bellamy’s hands as an unfamiliar voice swears some very familiar curses the next wagon over: “Fuck! You fucking bastard!”
Sure enough, Bastard is no longer curled up in the corner Bellamy last saw her in. Bellamy abandons the leafy crowns and jumps from the wagon to find a woman clutching her hat and glaring at a tree.
“Sorry about that!” Bellamy trots up to her. “Did she hurt you?”
The woman still clutches her hat to her head. “That thing landed on my head! How the fuck did it even get up there?”
“I’m so sorry,” Bellamy says. “I’ll grab her at once. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not,” she snaps, and strides off towards her wagon.
When she’s gone, Bellamy approaches the gnarled, twisted dark tree and clucks his tongue. “Come here, Bastard.” He reaches into his pocket. “Time for a treat, then we can play fetch all around the wagon and tire you—ah.”
His pocket is empty.
High on a branch above, Bastard cocks her sleek head. The wheels turning in her tiny mind are practically visible as she realizes Bellamy doesn’t have any treats. Moments later, she vanishes in a faint spark of magic.
Bellamy whirls around. “Bastard!”
Bastard has been too well-behaved recently. Rakos enjoys playing with her, chasing her around and playing fetch until she’s too tired to cause trouble. It’s helpful on days when Bellamy can’t do much more than sleep. And Teodor has been feeding her enough that she’s put on an ounce or two.
But they must not have entertained her enough today, because Bellamy finds her scampering on top of Petunia’s wagon. Her sable brown fur gleams in the afternoon sun.
When Bellamy arrives, Bastard blinks ahead to the next wagon roof. She paces back and forth along the tall edge before flopping over as if asleep.
“Bastard!” Bellamy hisses.
This wagon and the next are merchandise-only. Rough construction, a rounded wooden roof over the canvas walls. There’s a shelf-step cut into the bed, and the rear wall doesn’t extend all the way to the roof.
Barely visible over the edge, her little paws cycle in the air.
