Page 47 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“Garrett?”

Bubbles rise where he disappeared. The water settles, showing only ripples and the disturbed ducks reforming their group.

He’s not coming up.

“Garrett!”

My heart stops. Everything stops. The village, the people—they all fade to background noise.

There’s no time for thought. One moment I’m standing on the bank and the next I’m diving. The cold steals the breath from my lungs. I can barely see a foot in front of me. The pond is murky with disturbed silt. Weeds brush against my legs, tangling. My hands sweep through the water, searching, finding nothing but more weeds and mud.

Where is he? How deep is this pond? Why isn’t he coming up?

There. Cloth. An arm.

I grab him and haul upward, breaking the surface, dragging him toward the edge. My feet find purchase on the muddy bottom. Garrett’s dead weight in my grip, heavy and limp.

Panic claws at my throat because I pushed him in. I did this. If he’s hurt, if he’s drowned, it’s my fault—

Laughter erupts from his chest.

The little shit is not drowning.

He’s laughing.

The sound is bright and clear and fucking infuriating.

“You...” I start, water streaming down my face. My heart is still pounding with fear that’s rapidly transforming into anger. “You bastard.”

“You should see your face—“ He can barely get the words out between gasps of laughter. His whole body shakes with it.

“You pretended to drown.”

“I knew you’d save me.” He’s grinning now, water dripping from his perfect face, his perfect hair. “The look on your face when I went under...”

The children have started laughing too. So have several of the gathered villagers. The gods-damned goose waddles past, and I swear on every god in the elven pantheon that it looks smug about this entire situation.

Garrett wipes water from his eyes, still grinning. “Did you really think I couldn’t swim? I grew up on a river estate.”

“I didn’t think. I just—” I stop because I don’t want to finish that sentence.

Because finishing it means admitting that I dove in without hesitation. The thought of losing him sent me into the water without a second’s thought for my weapons, my gear, anything.

Losing him wasn’t an option I would consider.

He reaches up and plucks something off my shoulder. A lily pad, green and dripping. He holds it up like a trophy.

“You look like a very large, very wet dog,” he says, still grinning.

Water drips from my hair into my eyes. My boots are full of pond water. There are weeds tangled in my clothes. I can feel mud squishing between my toes.

But Garrett is alive.

I can’t tell if I want to pull him close or shove him back under. My hands tremble with both impulses. We wade to the edge, and willing hands help pull us out. Màiri is laughing so hard she’s holding her sides. Several of the adults are trying to hide their smiles too. We stand there dripping on the bank.

Several villagers usher us toward the inn’s entrance. Garrett waves off their concerns, still grinning. Inside, the inn is modest but well-kept. Several tables fill the common room that serves as both gathering space and tavern. A bar stretches along the far wall. Years have worn the wooden floors to a smooth shine.

The walls are decorated with dried herbs and paintings of the wheat fields at sunset. An elven lady emerges from the back room, wiping her hands on her apron. Her dark hair streaked with silver is pulled back in a practical bun. She takes one look at us and starts laughing.