Chapter 6 Quinn
QUINN
The world returned in fragments: the distant creak of wood, a muffled curse, the hushed sigh of old floorboards beneath a familiar tread. Cold air scratched at my cheeks. The sorry blanket had twisted about my legs in the night, leaving my knees exposed by the borrowed tunic’s inadequate hem.
Mav stood near the hearth, fastening the last buckle at his belt.
His hair, mussed by sleep, fell in loose waves, flattened where a hand had raked through upon waking.
His shirt bore the faintest crease where it had been pulled on in haste; the cuffs were rolled unevenly at his forearms. Along his jaw, a shadow of stubble had gathered overnight.
My breath misstepped.
There was something devastatingly handsome about him in the morning light.
Not in the polished way of portraits and princelings, but in the quiet way some men are unselfconscious, utterly unbothered by being looked upon.
Which, regrettably, I was doing.
Thoroughly.
I cursed my treacherous eyes, unwilling to admit how they lingered of their own accord.
This man—this disgraced knight with too much charm and too little sleep—was not someone I could afford to fall for. I had chided myself for noticing such things last night: the breadth of his shoulders as he bent for his stockings, the sure shape of his hands on the scarred tabletop.
I did not intend to begin anew.
I turned my face into the pillow and exhaled. Fool that I was, I still watched him from the corner of my vision as he crossed the room to retrieve his boots, moving with the unencumbered grace of one who did not yet know he was being observed.
“Morning,” he said at last, not looking up as he crouched to lace his boots. Sleep had roughened his voice.
I swallowed and pushed upright. “Good morning.”
He glanced then. His eyes brushed across me—bare knees, borrowed tunic, tangled hair—and then away again, as if his gaze had touched something fragile without having meant to.
I tucked the blanket about me in a late attempt at modesty.
If he thought anything of it, he kept it behind his teeth.
Instead, he rose and offered a half-smile.
“I figured we would get breakfast before we head out.”
I smoothed the tunic with careful hands and inclined my head.
He must not have seen the way I looked at him. Best so. The line between us had begun to blur.
I slipped into the washroom, freshened up the best I could, and changed into my singular gown. I put on my newly inherited boots and joined him at the landing.
The narrow stair reeked of damp stone. An upward draft carried the tang of coal smoke from the street. The tether stretched, a silken cord between us, drawing me forward.
Halfway down, he stepped aside to let me pass. The brush of his shoulder against mine was nothing by any sensible measure. A fleeting touch. Harmless. Yet my breath caught. It was a terrible habit of mine, permitting my heart to entangle with those to whom I was bound.
In other centuries, when I had awoken to an unfamiliar world, I convinced myself a fleeting romance might soften the sharpness of impermanence. And so it did—until the end came. Heartbreak had a way of outlasting whatever sweetness preceded it.
I would not make the same mistake again.
Mav glanced down as I passed, a line set between his brows as though he might speak.
He did not. His footfalls slowed behind mine, and the city’s noise rose to meet us.
Morning lay gold on the cobbles, glinting from an earlier shower.
A cart sloshed through the puddles. A merchant called from the corner. A distant bell tolled the hour.
Mav fell in step beside me, close enough that the warmth of him was at odds with the cool spring air. I focused on the street ahead: on pale buds swelling along the bare-limbed trees; on too-damp laundry clapping in the breeze; on anything that was not the steady presence at my side.
Inside the Withering Whistle, Mav’s boots found the same path as before, carrying him to the far table with the ease of habit. I mirrored the motions of our first evening and sat opposite.
“Ah,” Wren drawled from behind the counter, slinging a rag over his shoulder. “Domestic bliss. Round…four, is it now?”
“Don’t ruin breakfast, Wren,” Mav said without bothering to look up.
“I would never.” His gaze slid to me, all sly warmth. “You have the patience of a Saint. Planning to keep him long?”
I smiled with perfect grace. “Only until I teach him table manners.”
“So, two lifetimes then?” Wren goaded with a grin.
Mav huffed a laugh as Wren deposited two bowls, full of the same tasteless porridge we had endured yesterday.
The first few minutes passed in quiet, broken only by the muted clatter of other patrons.
Mav seemed at ease here—rooted in the scuffed boards and the low murmur of the room—as if he had been carved from the same timber.
The door opened. Brisk air ushered in a tall man in a worn leather doublet, martial at a glance even before his green eyes lit with recognition.
“Mavromichaeli Bassiano, by all the Saints.” He strode forward with the confidence of one seldom refused, blonde curls bouncing. “I thought you’d gone to Avilogne.”
Mav’s head lifted, and his expression shifted from wariness to a forcibly pleasant smile. “Gerant Trimbeaux.”
The man clasped Mav’s forearm in a soldier’s greeting. “Still alive, then.”
“Regrettably.”
Gerant laughed and let his gaze drift to me, widening at my battered gown. “And who is this?”
He bowed in greeting, a curt dip of his head that spoke of habit more than courtesy. His cloak shifted with the movement, revealing a white patch sewn near the shoulder—two hands, palms cupped together, stitched in gold thread.
The emblem caught my eye. It was not a crest I recognized, nor any of the sigils I had learned during my years at court. I tucked the curiosity away for later.
“Ah, yes,” Mav said through a strained grin. “This is Quinn, my…” His mouth remained open for a moment, as if pondering how to possibly explain how he and I had become acquainted. “This is Quinn.”
Gerant playfully elbowed Mav’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me the great Mavromichaeli has finally settled down.”
I arched a brow, tone properly neutral. “We are traveling companions.”
“Is that what they call it now?” Gerant winked and sat next to Mav, uninvited.
Mav did not correct him, and I did not reward the indecency of his suggestion with a reply.
His grin faded to something gentler as he stroked his graying beard, holding Mav’s gaze a breath longer than comfort allowed. “You know, not everyone agrees with what happened. You could come back—”
“I’m not coming back,” Mav said, his voice slicing through the thought before it had the chance to fully form.
Gerant leaned back, unfazed. “You could at least explain yourself. The truth might not change their minds, but—”
“There is no truth they’d care to hear,” Mav retorted, calm though his tone mimicked the closing of a door.
The earlier warmth cooled as Gerant’s eyes narrowed.
“Fair enough. Please, watch your back, Bassiano. Not everyone from those days would be pleased to find you in this town—or alive for that matter.” He stood, lingering with a hand on the table, and flicked a look toward me.
“Keep him in line, sweetheart. He’s good in a fight, but trouble always has a way of finding him. ”
“I shall bear it in mind,” I said.
Gerant gave Mav one last searching look before clapping him on the shoulder and striding out of the Withering Whistle and into the pallid light.
We finished breakfast without another word.
I watched him over the rim of my bowl, my mind tucking away the warning, the name, and the jagged edge that crept into his voice when he spoke of not returning.
Wind nipped at my cheeks as we stepped back into the street. Whatever shadow had crossed Mav’s face, it was not mine to bring to the light. Nevertheless, the words Gerant had spoken hummed at my temples.
Quiet stretched for several blocks before I broached conversation. “An old friend of yours?”
Mav’s stride didn’t slow. “Something like that.”
“How intentionally vague.”
“That’s the idea.” His tone was light, but there was steel beneath it.
“He seemed surprised to see you.”
“Most people are.”
We went a few steps farther over uneven stone. “Earlier,” I began, “the patch on Gerant’s cloak—white, with cupped hands. What does it signify?”
Mav glanced over his shoulder as if to confirm Gerant was out of earshot. “He’s a Hands, one of the lower order magics, a healer. The patch marks his gift.”
I frowned. “Why display it?”
He huffed through his nose. “Because the crown decided we all should. Fifty years ago, give or take, the king decreed every magical soul must wear their gift plain as daylight. Said it kept things orderly. Truth is, it keeps people obedient.” His jaw tightened.
“Hard to rebel when your magic’s stitched to your sleeve.
” Mav shook his head as if to clear his thoughts.
“It’s a requirement in the capital city, but out in the provinces, no one bothers, and it’s not enforced. ”
An involuntary shiver traced my spine. To wear one’s magic openly—for strangers to name at a glance—was unthinkable. If mine were ever laid bare, there would be no patch large enough to hide the consequences.
I told myself to let the matter rest, but my curiosity refused to relent. “You seemed displeased to see him.”
His jaw worked, but he kept his eyes forward. “Not everyone from my past is someone I want in my present.”
“While I am not sure what transpired between you—”
“Quinn.” No more than my name, low and clipped. Not angry, but enough to make our connection grow heavy. “Please.”
There was no opening in his voice. No latch for me to lift. I allowed the subject to drop, but the question remained.