Chapter 4 Quinn
QUINN
Muted silver light diffused through clouds and warped glass. Not belonging wholly to morning or night, but to that fragile hour between them. I lay still, eyes half-lidded, listening.
A splash of water against porcelain. A muffled exhale. The muted rustle of cloth drawn over skin.
He had awoken.
I turned my head upon the narrow bed, its frame groaning softly beneath the shift of my weight.
The washroom door did not meet its frame.
Through the narrow gap, I glimpsed him: sleeves rolled to the elbow, shirt half-buttoned, droplets still tracing the line of his jaw where he had dashed water over his face.
The magic connection stirred between us—a faint, steady pulse beneath my skin, not painful nor urgent, but insistent. It tugged with the quiet certainty of the tide, reminding me that even my waking did not belong wholly to myself.
I rose with care, smoothing the silver gown that had become the uniform of my exile. I pressed my palms along its length, as though I might coax it into its former grace, knowing the effort would fail.
He moved with the nonchalance of one accustomed to his own company. There was no vanity in him, only purpose: rinsing the basin, running his fingers through his damp hair, fastening a misaligned button before undoing it without impatience and beginning again.
I had expected…something different from the man bound to me by a curse. Something sharper, perhaps. More theatrical. Not this quiet, rumpled practicality that felt far too intimate.
He spoke without turning. “Sleep well, princess?”
The sound of his voice startled me more than the words. I had not realized he knew I was awake.
“I remind you, I am no princess,” I murmured, futilely smoothing my wild hair. “But yes, I did sleep well.” Rising, before he could reply, I crossed to the adjoining washroom. “If you will excuse me, I should make myself presentable.”
The chill of the floorboards bit at my bare feet as I crossed to the adjoining washroom.
Inside, the small basin waited, half-filled with water gone cool overnight.
Upon discovering my disheveled reflection in the rippled surface of the mirror, I realized I had nothing with which to ready myself.
My gaze caught on a wooden comb resting beside the basin, its teeth worn smooth with use, Mav’s no doubt.
I hesitated, fingers hovering above it. To borrow such a thing bordered on indecorous and overly intimate.
Yet vanity, or the simple desire to feel a fraction more human, won out.
The comb snagged on my tangled hair enough instances to make me wince, but the overall effect on my appearance was well worth the discomfort.
When I splashed water upon my face, it struck cold, chasing away the haze of sleep but not the deeper weariness beneath.
Smoothing my hands over my singular gown, I wished I had something else to change into.
Mav’s voice called through the gap between the door and frame. “I’ll be right back.”
I heard the door close, and at once the tether stirred, tightening behind my sternum as the distance between us increased.
Willing myself to draw steadying breaths, I walked closer to the main door, relief blooming as the strain eased.
His returning footsteps sounded in the corridor, and the tension on the thread between us slackened entirely. He entered carrying a pair of boots.
“I had to guess on sizing, but my neighbor raised four daughters and was happy to part with them,” he said, setting them at my feet. “They’re hardly fit for a lady,” he added with a shy grin, “but they’ll keep your feet from getting any more torn up.”
“I…” Any chance of reply stalled on my tongue.
The gesture was practical and thoughtful.
Warmth climbed throughout my chest at the unexpected act of kindness.
I slipped my feet inside, the worn leather molding neatly to my heels.
While they were not a perfect fit, they were near enough to send a wave of emotion washing over me.
“Thank you, Mav,” I croaked, swiping at the wetness on my cheek.
His eyes widened when he noted the tears in mine. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
My head shook. “You have not upset me. On the contrary, I am overcome with gratitude.”
“They’re just shoes…” Mav’s brows lowered in bewilderment, unsure as to why the act would elicit such a response from me.
Managing a half smile, I locked my gaze with his. “Not to me.”
After several moments of thick silence, he shrugged. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes, though I cannot promise to enjoy what awaits.”
Mav chuckled. “Wren should add that to the sign,” he said, already moving toward the door. “The Withering Whistle, we cannot promise you’ll enjoy what awaits.”
He held the door open for me, though I did not expect him to.
We were not lovers, nor friends, nor anything that fit neatly into language I knew.
Yet as we stepped into the pale morning—over cobblestones slick with last night’s rain, beneath a sky of unpolished pewter—I could not shake the sense that something had begun between us.
The Withering Whistle revealed no greater charm in daylight.
Within the leaning walls, the air still carried the scent of ash and vinegar, the cloudy windows reluctant to admit the day.
Yet there was a reassuring constancy in it, a warmth worn into the bones of the place akin to a song remembered without knowing when one learned it.
Wren stood behind the counter, his gray eyes darting up as we approached. “You again,” he grunted, already ladling a steaming, viscous substance into chipped bowls. “What is it this time, Bassiano? Pity breakfast?”
“Let me guess, pity costs extra?” Mav goaded, rolling his eyes as he settled onto a stool.
Wren snorted and set the bowls before us: porridge and stewed fruit glistening with heat. I moved to take the seat to Mav’s right only to feel it tilt beneath me, sending me toward the ground.
A yelp escaped my throat as balance failed.
Before sense could follow, Mav’s arm was around my waist, firm and sure, drawing me flush against him.
The room receded to the span of his chest beneath my palms, the rough weave of his shirt against my skin as his heart thundered, hammering against my fingers with each rapid beat.
His sharp inhale brushed the crown of my head.
I dared a glance upward, and my gaze collided with his.
Mav’s eyes darkened, an unspoken swirl of concern warring with the stern line of his brow. A hard swallow worked his throat.
Decorum insisted I draw back, but for several breathless heartbeats, I could not remember why distance had ever been required of us.
“Saints preserve me,” Wren muttered, cutting through the hush. “Maybe pity doesn’t cost extra, but if I’ve to watch this nonsense, I’ll charge double. Felix!”
The trance broke as Wren barked at one of his staff. A boy hurried forward, replacing the offending stool with one less treacherous. Mav lowered me onto it with disarming gentleness, releasing his hold on me only once I was seated.
“Thank you,” I murmured, though the words barely carried. My cheeks burned.
“You’re welcome in my arms anytime,” he said.
The words hung in the thickened air, reckless and too intimate by half. His eyes widened as realization dawned. Color surged up his neck, blooming high across his cheeks.
“I—that’s not…I wasn’t implying,” he stammered as his gaze darted away. “I only meant if you fall, I’d rather catch you—not that I wish you to fall more…again…”
The sentence stumbled to its end, clumsy and earnest in equal measure. Mav’s eyes dropped to his bowl as though it held some profound revelation, his face twisting into a grimace.
As the corners of my mouth curled up, a wave of feeling washed down the tether. His emotions, muted but distinct, brushed against my own—the chill of mortification, the quick burn of self-reproach, the quiet wish to erase his words. Among the feelings I expected, one surprised me…a flash of fear.
I lowered my gaze, willing my composure to hold.
I had not told him the tether could behave this way, carrying the tides of two souls bound by circumstance.
Similar to the sea, great surges of emotion were impossible to ignore when they crested against one’s consciousness, while the smaller currents required attunement to perceive.
In truth, I found it endearing that he could feel so deeply over a brief moment of awkwardness.
Yet guilt seeped beneath my skin. I had thought it noble to spare him this knowledge after his initial overwhelm at our binding—but unless I mastered every flicker of my own heart, he would soon discover the truth for himself.
Mav ate as though to complete a necessary duty, avoiding my gaze in silence as I took smaller bites.
The porridge was penitential in its texture, somehow managing to be watery and lumpy, but the fruit, soft and sun-sweetened, nearly made up for it.
Mav’s head bent over his bowl, but I could sense his attention as it flickered toward me—small, unmeant glances quickly buried in the scrape of his spoon.
When the last bite had been consumed, I asked, “Where shall we begin?”
His eyes flew to mine, rounded in inquiry.
“Your quest,” I clarified.
A faint, wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Today, my quest is to do enough work to eat again tomorrow. And since this”—he gestured to the invisible connection between us, neither of us had chosen—“keeps us close, looks like you’re coming with me.”
“And if I refuse? If I insist we embark on a proper quest?”
“I don’t think you can refuse,” he said, rising from the stool. “It’d be terribly inconvenient for both of us. Besides, maybe we’ll find a proper quest along the way.”
My lips pressed together as I considered his rebuttal. If he truly had no quest, then there was no harm in seeing which options might make themselves available. “Very well,” I said with a tight nod.