Chapter 24 Quinn
QUINN
Morning mist threaded lazy fingers through moss-draped railings and uneven steps. Durik waited on the sagging porch, leaning against a twisted post with a scowl.
We approached as a company, the spoon cradled in my hands. It felt absurdly ceremonial to bear a kitchen utensil swaddled in oilcloth as though it were a Saint’s relic. Yet Durik had made himself clear; this was of great importance to him.
“Stonecleave,” Mav greeted.
Durik sniffed. “You’re late.”
“We’re early,” Thistle returned. “You’re impatient.”
He ignored her and squinted at me. “Well? Let’s see it.”
I extended the bundle. He unrolled it with a theatrical flourish. When metal caught light, he made a sound between a grunt and a relieved sigh.
“There she is,” he murmured. “Petal bowl, spiral handle, crack at the throat—aye, that’s her. Family prize. Carved by my ancestor with one working eye and a bone chisel.” He tucked the spoon into his belt and reached into the satchel slung across his shoulder. “A deal’s a deal.”
He drew out the shimmering invitation and handed it to me. The warmth of charm magic bled through the vellum.
“This should get you through the city gate—assuming you don’t get yourselves arrested first,” Durik said,
“Appreciate the confidence,” Mav muttered.
Durik’s grin was all teeth. “I trust you about as far as I can throw your horse. But you kept your bargain. So do I.”
Branrir cleared his throat. “Advice before we go?”
The troll scratched his chin, squinted up into the drifting canopy. “Don’t let the fresh paint fool you. That place’ll chew you up faster than Rouzbeh ever would. Goblins are honest about being evil. Royals will smile while they gut you.”
“How comforting,” Vesper snarked with a roll of his green eyes.
“You wanted an invitation,” Durik shrugged. “I never said it’d be safe.”
Behind us, the inn door creaked. Shubre emerged with a basket in her arms, flour smudged across her apron. She regarded us as one might an uninvited fungus that had colonized her porch overnight.
“You’re still here?”
“We will be on our way shortly,” I said. “Thank you for everything.”
She grumbled something unflattering and thrust a small basket into Thistle’s arms. “Honeycakes. For the road. If you come back, don’t track rain and mud all over my floors again.”
Thistle looked genuinely moved. “Shubre, are you going soft on us?”
“Don’t flatter yourselves.” She vanished back inside and slammed the door.
We stood a breath longer in the mist and let the weight of the road settle.
Aurillion.
The capital city of Avandria.
It rose in my mind half-remembered: towers spearing sky, stained-glass Saints, violet banners. Lifetimes had passed since I had been there.
“Let’s ride,” Branrir said, already turning toward the horses.
We mounted quickly. Mav’s hands were steady as he helped me into the saddle. I slipped the invitation into my pocket. The spoon was gone. Rouzbeh was behind us.
The road to Aurillion opened ahead.
The trail unfurled in dappled gold and green, the forest stitched into panes of stained light. Mav rode behind me, his arms braced at either side. His chest was a steady heat at my back, his breath measured, yet tension threaded through him.
I was no better.
I could not stop thinking of his mouth upon mine.
The night clung to me: the careful weight of his hands; the heat of his breath when he asked, “Can I hold you?” The wild, consuming balcony kisses; the aching restraint of his retreat. The look in his eyes had surpassed hunger; it held a level of caring I had never experienced.
Morning made liars of us. There was no lingering tenderness or affection. While I had not expected the day to begin with kisses or meaningful touch, the space between us had gone cold. There was only the clink of tack and the pretense of unchanged ground. Did he regret what had transpired?
Leaning into a turn as the path curved, I swallowed. “About last night…”
A low sound from him—acknowledgment with an edge of caution.
“Does this mean I have an open invitation to kiss you again?”
He huffed a laugh. “Does it? I mean…would you like it to?”
I drew a steadying breath. “Yes.”
The leather creaked as his hands gripped the reins.
When he did speak, I continued. “I am growing rather fond of you, Mav.”
He tensed behind me, and the invisible string between us went taut with a matching intensity.
My smile fled as doubt crept into the corners of my heart. “I thought last night meant we were of one mind.”
At last, he offered only, “Quinn…”
I faced the trail. My heart beat dull and low. “It is fine,” I dismissed. “Forget I spoke.”
“No, I—”
I leaned forward, the smallest withdrawal from his warmth.
The seating arrangement of sharing a horse did not allow much distance, but it was sufficient to make a point.
Clarity was in a long list of things for which I was unwilling to beg.
If last night were true for him, he would say so.
If he wanted me, truly, he would not freeze upon hearing it named.
Silence pressed hard enough to bruise.
The trees parted into a wide, sloping grove washed in gold. The trail spilled into a meadow, untouched by time or trespass. An orchard sprang up, tree limbs bowed with apples, pears, and golden fruits I had no names for. Moss furred their trunks. Roots sprawled like sleeping beasts.
Vesper let out a low whistle from Thistle’s shoulder. “If this is a trap, it’s a very well-decorated and appealing one.”
Branrir slid down, eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t feel like a trap.”
“Doesn’t feel safe either,” Mav murmured.
I dismounted in silence—more stiffness than grace. Clover and wildflowers cushioned my boots. Bees bumbled through the air, and a stream whispered nearby.
“Water, shade, food,” Thistle said, tilting her head. “I say we risk it.”
“Define food,” Vesper sniffed, already springing into a pear tree. “I’m fairly certain that fuchsia berry winked.”
“It’s a dewberry,” Thistle called. “They do that.”
Mav gave a vehement shake of his head. “I don’t want anything I eat to look at me.”
I slid my eyes to his, voice lowering to a suggestive purr. “Are you certain?”
His jaw fell open, a bright red flush claiming his face.
For someone so reluctant to voice his desires earlier, his reaction made them abundantly clear.
What had changed since last night? We kissed.
He held me in his arms. Yet, now he was cold and standoffish.
Perhaps my feelings exceeded his, or in the light of day, he regretted his actions.
While the others spread out, I drifted toward the edge of the meadow, seeking a moment of solitude to breathe without witnesses.
Mav did not follow, though I sensed the limit of the tether pulling with each step away from him.
His earlier silence echoed, an unanswered knock.
I had tried to be brave in admitting my fondness for him.
It seems bravery does not render one lovable—only easier to disappoint.
My stomach issued an unladylike growl. I plucked a low apple—pale gold, blushed pink—perfect by all measures. When my teeth broke the skin, juice flooded. It tasted the way I imagined a happy childhood might, sunlight one could hold.
I sank into the grass; it received me with a sigh. I watched Vesper doze upon a branch, tail over nose. Thistle chewed something dark and purple and made skeptical noises. Branrir rubbed down his horse and conversed with it as though the creature might answer.
Footsteps sounded to my left. I did not look up. Mav crouched beside me.
“Here,” he said.
He offered a slice of pear. I took it; he didn’t take his hand back right away. I glanced from his hand to his eyes. There was neither a smile nor frost. He remained unreadable.
“Thank you,” I said flatly.
Mav lingered a breath, then stood and began to walk away.
Say something. The impulse to throw the fruit in my hand at the back of his retreating head became increasingly appealing.
Instead, I drew a long breath, counted to five, and rose.
If he meant to run from truth, very well—he would not do so without hearing what he left behind. I marched toward him.
“Mav, I do not understand what you meant last night. Are you in this or not?” That is what I meant to say, except that is not what emerged.
What I ended up saying was, “I thought we were aligned; now I feel declined.”
I blinked. Heat crawled up my neck. Why had the words I spoke not been those I intended?
Mav’s brows rose. “What?”
I tried again. “You seemed to care, then pulled away, leaving me in confusion and dismay.”
He opened his mouth and frowned. “I didn’t mean to make you doubt. That’s not what this is all about.”
We stared at one another.
“That’s not what I meant to say, but the words can’t seem to find their way,” Mav added.
“Did either of you eat those pears?” Thistle called from the stream. “Because this is not how normal fairs.”
Vesper, drowsy on his branch: “You all sound cursed. But in verse.”
Branrir exhaled hard through his nose. “I know what’s happening here.
Perhaps I can make things clear.” Turning an apple over in his hand as he explained, “We’ve stumbled upon The Grove of Wurless—its fruit compels one’s thoughts to confess.
Each bite will loosen truth and rhyme, till heart and mouth keep perfect time. ”
Placing her hands on her hips, Thistle’s brows crowded. “This fruit does not produce delirium, but is some kind of truth-baring serum?”
“In essence,” Branrir sighed. “The orchard feeds on spoken hearts; it twists one’s logic into arts. A poet’s trap. A lover’s test. A snare disguised as nature’s jest.”
Vesper scoffed. “Ugh, just when I thought we were out of trouble, this fruit increases my suffering by double.”
Thistle turned to Branrir. “How long can its effects last? When can we expect this rhyming to pass?”
“The texts claim until the fruit can digest or until all truths can manifest,” Branrir answered.
“Not to drag this into light, but I think we’re about to witness a fight,” Vesper added, green eyes darting between Mav and me.
Mav looked at me. I looked at him, and fury cracked through.
“You kissed me like you meant it—then froze like you resent it. Now you are quiet and I am unsure—am I meant simply to endure?”
Mav raised his hands, palms forward. “In my defense, I never meant to make things tense.” His voice broke on the rhyme; he grimaced.
Thistle snorted.
I took another step closer. “So was it fever? Battle trance? Do I warrant only a chance, when death is near and knives insist—but not on ordinary days we kiss?”
“I do want you,” he blurted. “Saints, I do. I’m such a mess—I wish you knew.” He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wild. “It isn’t you. You’re…radiant. I panic when things feel…permanent.”
Thistle groaned. “I tire of these rhymes so dire.”
Branrir massaged his temples. “We require a cure or warding charm; that couplet did us actual harm.”
I meant to reply, but the grove betrayed me. “You make me want to rage and yell, but you play my heartstrings too well.”
Silence.
Then Thistle collapsed backward into the grass and howled. Vesper wheezed on his branch. Branrir muttered under his breath and looked every inch the long-suffering uncle.
Mav stared for one long second. Then, with a flourish, he dropped to one knee.
“You deserve better—that much is true—a bard with wit, not a knight gone blue. Yet if you’ll have me in your tale, I’ll ride beside you, without fail—in peace or war, in sun or shade—and rhyme until this curse has fade—” He winced. “—faded.”
The grove held its breath. Then we all burst into laughter.
I folded into the grass beside Thistle. My ribs ached.
My head swam. Mav sank down a moment later.
His hand brushed mine. I resisted the urge to look at him, but I did not move my hand away from his.
His fingers wrapped around mine. And with the fragile gesture, the silence was no longer painful.