14. Ashwind
14
Ashwind
They passed through a gap in a crumbling stone wall and continued quietly along the dust-ridden path, which was now lined by a smattering of dilapidated cottages and farmhouses. Some appeared to be built of deadened wood logs and straw, others by handmade bricks and leaking mud. All were overrun by untamed vegetation, so overwhelming, it was as though they were on the verge of being swallowed whole by the ground beneath them.
Occasionally, a goat or rooster dotted the edge of the road. Each time Rosalind feared one would venture too close to the horses' hooves, she was relieved when they abruptly changed course and resettled a safe distance away. There they resumed their lazy grazing. It was as if an invisible fence lined the path, protecting them from a gruesome demise.
“Where is everyone?” Valentina questioned, a hint of wariness in her voice.
It was only then that Rosalind realized how quiet it was. Eerily so. She’d been so caught up in finally having new sights to take in that she hadn’t considered these homes belonged to people—people who were nowhere to be seen. What’s more, even the singsong of birds was absent, though she could have sworn she’d noticed a crow or two fly past them in the distance. Only the rare bleat from a meandering goat cut the crisp air. It was uncanny, to say the least. Like something wasn’t quite right, but what, she wasn’t sure .
“They’re waiting at the square, my lady,” Tory explained. “We don’t get many visitors to these parts, you see.”
“So earlier,” Jonathan chimed in, “when you mentioned a few others might be awaiting our arrival, you were referring to the entire village?”
“Yes, sir,” Tory replied, nodding eagerly.
“Lovely.”
The small, almost indiscernible sigh following his sarcastic reply shed light on Jonathan’s true sentiment.
“Jonathan,” she said softly.
“Rosalind,” he replied, mimicking her tone.
“It’ll be alright.”
Jonathan said nothing, and Rosalind had to admit the words seemed more encouraging in her head. Out loud, they sounded rather hollow.
“I have every faith in you,” she started again, her voice wavering a little as she went, “as does Val. She wouldn’t dare say it aloud but she’s proud of you, you know. Keeps clippings about you from the papers in a hat box underneath her bed, which I discovered by accident. I wasn’t snooping, I swear it. Oh, please don’t tell her I told you,” she added hastily. “She’d kill me just for knowing its existence. Then she’d bring me back to life only to kill me again for telling you about it.”
Rosalind cursed her big, blabbering mouth. Could she not speak eloquently for just once in her life?
“Don’t worry, I’ll add it to our list of secrets,” Jonathan said with a sly lilt. Then, in a tone so wonderfully gentle and earnest, he added, “Thank you, Ros.”
And her heart skipped a beat.
After a time, the road beneath them shifted from dirt and sand to worn-down cobblestones. Soon after, buildings flanked them on either side, two or three stories in height. Made of blackened bricks and splintered wood, they fit snugly and unevenly against one another.
They passed a bookstore on their left. Embedded into the brick wall was a small, cracked window. Behind it sat a book splayed open for display, but it was so heavily coated in dust that she couldn’t make out a lick of text. A few buildings down was another shop with its door ajar, though there wasn’t enough light inside to see what was in it. Based on the lopsided sign that stood beside the door, it belonged to a grocer. Cabbage, onions, carrots, beets, and potatoes were listed in chalk, though all but the latter two were crossed out with jagged lines.
As they continued along the cobblestone road, they passed a shoemaker, a bakery, a woodworking shop, and a general store. Each and every shop looked like it had been heavily burdened by the blows of weather and time.
Again, there was little sound beyond that of their own making. Stranger still, though the buildings weren’t particularly tall, they somehow managed to block out nearly all of the daylight. The sun hadn’t been out, but the clouds in the sky were still a bright gray as if they carried the light within them. Not seeing any of this light in the street below was surprising. When Rosalind looked up, her eyes caught on a sliver of gold glimmer that shone atop the soot-stained wall of one of the buildings. Was that a reflection of the light? If so, it looked like nothing she’d seen before .
She was going to inquire about it when, suddenly, the horse came to a stop beneath her. Just beyond the heads of Tory and his grandmother, Rosalind eyed a large crowd of people.
“Well, shit.”
“Valentina,” Jonathan warned.
“Pardon my language,” she muttered, directing an apologetic smile toward Tory and Ms. Darren.
Tory hopped off the cart and helped his grandmother down. Valentina followed suit and dismounted with ease. Rosalind felt Jonathan shift behind her. Moments later, she heard his boots hit the ground.
“Let me help you down. Swing your leg over and take hold of my shoulders.”
Reluctantly, Rosalind did as she was told. So sore and exhausted from the ride, she didn’t correctly judge how high to lift her leg when swinging it to the other side. Her heel bumped the horse's withers, and she lost her balance. She thought for certain she’d soon find herself face-first on the ground. To her relief, solid hands caught her at the waist and guided her down.
“Looks like we’ve both managed to arrive with our dignity intact,” Jonathan said with a hint of a smile.
Rosalind grinned up at him. She thought she might have heard a faint voice in the distance, but her focus was too wrapped up in the dimple that showed on Jonathan’s cheek and his hands still held firmly at her waist. The voice grew louder.
“Jonathan,” Valentina hissed. The younger Rashford eyed her brother with a stare as sharp as daggers. “She’s calling on you.” She nodded her head to where Ms. Darren stood.
“Follow me. All of you.” It was all the curmudgeonly woman said before venturing into the crowd.
Rosalind kept her eyes glued to the cobblestones beneath her feet as they moved through the narrow pathway made just for them by the parting crowd. Stares from dozens upon dozens of strangers bored into her. How much more Jonathan? And being the last one in line, she could feel the pathway falling away behind her, a wash of people filling the void to get a closer look. It was as if a large, slow-moving wave shadowed her, nipping at her heels.
Eventually, they came to a halt, and her curiosity won over. She looked up to see they had come to a large stone fountain that hadn’t seen water in quite some time. In front of it stood a woman in a woolen blue dress, a gray-and-green plaid shawl draped around her shoulders. Her dark brown tresses were twisted behind her head, held in place by a black feather that was just visible, and loose locks framed her face. She eyed them, expressionless.
“Chancellor,” she said in a crisp, cool tone.
Jonathan drew his hands behind his back and lowered into a deep bow. “Keeper Saintgarden, it’s an honor to meet you.”
The woman, who Rosalind understood was the Keeper, or leader, of the village, made no attempt to return the bow. After a prolonged silence, she spoke.
“You’ve come with no armed escorts.”
“As promised,” Jonathan replied.
Rosalind caught the Keeper’s gaze darting over to where Tory and Ms. Darren stood. The petite, older woman gave a curt nod.
“And as I have promised, you’ll be under my protection throughout your duration here—which I do not anticipate will be long. Rooms have been made up for you and your acquaintances at our inn. As you might have gathered on your way in, they are modest in nature.”
“Thank you, Keeper. We appreciate the hospitality.”
Keeper Saintgarden scoffed, then turned her attention in Rosalind and Valentina’s direction. “Your acquaintances, as mentioned in your latest correspondence, I take it?”
“Yes. This is—”
She waved her hand, cutting him off. A brief look on Jonathan’s face betrayed his surprise, but it quickly fell away, replaced by a practiced impassive expression. The Keeper approached Valentina and considered her.
“You must be his sister. Same eyes, same hair. Even your facial structure is not unlike that of your father.”
“Looks alone are what we share in common with our father,” Valentina assured as she met the Keeper’s eyes.
“We’ll see about that. And what of you? What might I call you?”
Rosalind didn’t have to look up to know that Keeper Saintgarden was now watching her. The gooseflesh on the back of her neck indicated that.
“My name is Rosalind Carver, Keeper,” she said with a hasty bow.
“Carver,” the Keeper said, the name rolling around in her mouth as if she were tasting it. “That’s a borderlands name.”
Rosalind nodded. Low murmurs sounded around her, stilling her breath.
“I see. And who are you to them?”
“She’s our friend. As much family as friend, in fact,” Valentina chimed in. “Our grandmother took her in as a ward many years ago.”
Warmth bloomed in Rosalind’s chest, coaxing breath out of her once again. It was comforting to hear Valentina speak her affections so plainly, and she was thankful her friend came to her aid. She wasn’t certain she would have been able to answer herself, under the weight of so many whispers.
The feeling disintegrated the moment Keeper Saintgarden leaned toward her and inhaled sharply.
“Intriguing perfume you wear, Miss Carver. A familiar scent not unlike that of…”
“Cloves,” Jonathan murmured .
Several pairs of eyes, including Rosalind’s own, glanced over to where he stood. Jonathan visibly stiffened at the attention, as if he hadn’t expected his answer to be heard.
“I—well, I shared a horse with her for the past few hours. Had a lot of time to consider it,” he explained rather hastily.
“Yes.” Keeper Saintgarden’s eyes shifted from Jonathan to settle heavily on Rosalind. “Quite unique. Might I ask where you acquired it?”
From beneath her lashes, Rosalind anxiously peered around at the crowd. What an odd question to ask of her now, in front of everyone, upon first meeting. She shook her head slowly. “I don’t wear perfume, Keeper,” she answered quietly.
If this was some sort of attempt at humiliating her, it was working. She felt her cheeks burn at the weight of attention.
The Keeper snapped her head up and called out to the crowd. “Where’s Sylvan?”
“He’s indisposed at the moment,” someone called out from the crowd.
“Tell him to meet us at the tavern when he’s fit to. Now,” the Keeper continued, shifting her focus back to Jonathan, “how could I forget myself? You’ve come all this way to grace us with your company, and I have yet to ask the people to bow before you, my lord. My deepest apologies. I shall remedy that right aw—”
“No, no,” Jonathan quickly cut in. “That won’t be necessary. I expect no such thing.”
“How gracious of you, Chancellor.”
More than a few snickers sounded from the crowd.
“Already more gracious than his father was when he visited us five and twenty years ago,” she continued.
“He stole from us,” someone jeered. Others cried out in agreement .
“That he did,” Jonathan exclaimed calmly, though a distinct thread of agitation was woven into his tone. The noise of the crowd ebbed at this.
“Have you come to return them?” The question was shouted from amongst the masses.
Rosalind understood they were referring to imbued artifacts the late Lord Rashford had seized during his visit to Ashwind. Under his command, security personnel charged into their homes and forcibly confiscated hundreds of items, some as small as a ring, others as large as a tapestry—anything they suspected of being suffused with magic. She knew this because Jonathan had informed her and Valentina of this when he agreed to let them accompany him to the border. Presumably, he thought to dissuade them from coming by underscoring how unfavorable they’d be viewed. It hadn’t worked.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Jonathan admitted. “Truthfully, the items taken from you were apportioned, destroyed, or sold off long ago. I’m sorry. I know an apology does little to atone for my father’s actions, but I offer it all the same, and I promise from here on out to do all I can to regain your trust.”
“Quite the rehearsed pronouncement, Chancellor,” the Keeper remarked. “But how much weight does your promise hold, I wonder? Your like hasn’t spared us a single thought in over two decades so I hope you can forgive my skepticism when I say I find it difficult to imagine why a young, newly inducted official such as yourself should be any different.”
Several shouts of agreement erupted around them.
Jonathan nodded. “I understand. I wouldn’t believe me either; I haven’t given you any reason to. Not yet, at least. But I’ve come to seek your audience in the hopes that you’ll hear me out all the same. I may yet convince you. ”
He and the Keeper looked at one another for a long moment, throughout which no one spoke. That is until a voice in the crowd called out. “Hornswoggler!”
“Oh shut up, Warren. And yes, I know it was you,” Keeper Saintgarden chided. “Now, off you go. All of you,” she added, waving away the mountain of people. “And don’t forget what we discussed earlier.”
She turned back to Jonathan, then to Rosalind and Valentina. “Come, let us continue this delightful conversation inside, shall we?”
Keeper Saintgarden pushed at a pair of thick, knotted, wooden doors, which opened into a dimly lit tavern. The smell of warm beer and smoked meats flooded Rosalind’s senses as soon as she stepped inside. Beyond her lay rows of long tables and benches. As they proceeded to the end of one of the tables, she noticed a wall of shelves lined with large mugs and unlabeled bottles of liquor in varying shades of green, red, and brown. In front of the shelves stood a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and bushy eyebrows. He was leaning on the bar, eyes narrowed and set on Jonathan.
“Leon,” said the Keeper as she addressed the bearded man. “Can you prepare some plates for our guests? I’ll take care of the drinks.” She walked off without another word.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, dear brother, but she is not fond of you. Nor is anybody else for that matter,” Valentina murmured as soon as the Keeper was out of earshot.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Jonathan replied dryly as he settled onto the bench beside Rosalind.
His leg brushed against hers and stayed there. Since he made no attempt to move, neither did Rosalind .
Moments later, Keeper Saintgarden returned with mugs and a bottle of something brown. After filling each mug, she took a seat across from the trio.
Rosalind brought the mug to her lips and took a tentative sip. Sweet on the tongue, it was only after she swallowed that she noticed the burn left in its wake. She couldn’t help the cough that escaped her lips.
“A little stronger than you get in Proper, yes?”
Nodding, Rosalind took another sip, intent on not coughing this time around.
The Keeper clasped her hands together atop the table. “Let’s have it, then.”
“Now?” Jonathan asked. “I rather expected a private audience.”
“Leon has spent far too much time around noisy drunkards; you’d have to shout for him to hear anything. And his daughter is tucked away in the kitchen. I see no one else around.” The Keeper made a show of looking about.
Jonathan glanced warily at her and Valentina. So it had been them he was referring to.
“Perhaps we should…” Rosalind started to move.
“No, it’s alright,” he said, placing a hand on her arm. “You should stay. It isn’t anything I wouldn’t have told you eventually.” He drew his hand away, reached for his mug and took a long drink. Then he squared his shoulders and began.
“As you said yourself, Keeper, the council has neglected your people for the past twenty years, providing little in the way of support. But even before then, records indicate the well-being of borderlanders was little more than an afterthought. And now, I’ve come to find the council’s neglect is not limited to the borderlands. The concerns of all those beyond the purview of high society are being blatantly disregarded. ”
Keeper Saintgarden’s guarded expression didn’t waver as Jonathan spoke.
“Things can’t continue as they are,” he went on. “People can hardly afford to feed their families, and the current solution fails to alleviate this. We need to come up with a way to make things more accessible to more people.”
The Keeper’s brows raised. “Ah, I see. So you’ve listened to the struggles of some poor farmers and witnessed children starving in the streets—all from the comfort of your private carriage, mind you—and now you believe you’re fully versed in the plight of the less fortunate?”
“No, I wouldn’t presume such a thing, but—”
“But you believe you can solve it? Be our savior,” she exclaimed wryly. “And how do you expect to accomplish this? By taxing the wealthy? No, I doubt they’d be so willing to part with their hard-earned riches.”
Jonathan winced. “That’s not what I’m suggesting…”
“What then?” the Keeper retorted before he could say anything more. “Perhaps the problem lies within the sheer number of us to contend with. It’d surely be easier if you were to cast more of us out. Oh, and let’s not forget, there’s always the option to imprison us. It’s not as if your lot hasn’t done that before. Not everyone, of course—merely the peculiar ones. You know, the ones people tend to stay away from. Every town’s got them, haven’t they? Surely, no one would miss them.”
A chill ran up Rosalind’s spine. She was someone people stayed away from.
“No. Never,” Jonathan said gravely. Under the table, Rosalind felt his hand grip her knee.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Valentina,” Jonathan grumbled.
“No, you will not Valentina me again, Jonathan. ”
Rosalind shrunk in on herself, wishing she could be anywhere other than wedged between the siblings. Valentina would say whatever she wanted, and no one could stop her. How everyone else would take it, however, remained to be seen.
“You permitted my brother to come here and vie for a chance to speak with you. He’s doing just that, but you’re not listening. You’re merely berating him, and he’s not going to do a thing about it because he’s trying to show you respect. But why should he when you show him none in return? I think we can all agree our father was not a good man,” she pressed on. “He was drunk on power and never missed an opportunity to use it. Eighteen years he’s been gone, and he still manages to wield his influence from the grave. Don’t you see? You’re granting him power by undermining what might otherwise be a productive conversation if only you’d let it. Please, let him say his peace, or else Ros and I will have to listen to him piss and moan about what could’ve been all the way home.”
Silence fell over the table. Only the occasional clanging of pots and pans resounded around them. Rosalind gaped at her friend. As startling and reckless as her outburst was, it was also magnificent. And damn convincing as far as she was concerned.
After considering Valentina for a short while, Keeper Saintgarden seemed to arrive at the same conclusion. “From here on out,” she began slowly, “I’ll refrain from any further rebukes, lest they be warranted.”
When Rosalind turned to Jonathan, she found him smiling to himself. He eyed his drink for a moment, then spoke.
“I want to know the truth about wielding.”
It took a moment for Rosalind to register what he’d said. Earlier, he’d mentioned inquiring about farming and food supplies. What had wielding to do with it? Is this why he’d been reluctant to include them in the conversation ?
Keeper Saintgarden eyed him skeptically and opened her mouth to speak. Rosalind’s best guess was that her promise to refrain from rebukes was about to be very short-lived.
“I have a theory,” Jonathan said before she could get a word in. “One that speaks to why, year after year, our harvests continue to struggle.”
He began to explain how, historically, agriculture in Denault had not always been a point of consternation. A handful of texts indicated that, for a time, it had flourished. Denault was once known for its abundant grain production, primarily wheat, rye, and barley. It’s why the Chancellor’s insignia consisted of wheat stalks.
The marked decline in harvest production began in the decade before the New Laws came into effect. Around this time, relations between wielders and non-wielders started to fracture, particularly within wealthier industrial towns and seaside villages throughout the country. This only intensified as the years went on, to the point that wielders began to go into hiding for fear of their safety.
From there, it wasn’t long before those in power placed the onus of the country’s persisting agricultural woes on wielders, claiming they had intentionally compromised the land in an attempt to undermine ruling parties. As many wielders had already fled the country or gone to ground, there weren’t many to speak on their behalf. The New Laws were born shortly after, promising the end to civil strife and ushering in a new age free from the perils of magic.
“Now, I know, I know you are itching to ask me why I’m bothering to explain any of this.” He shot a pointed look at Valentina. “It’s so I can beg the question—what if wielders did indeed play a significant role in our agricultural downturn? But, not in the way the New Laws allege.”
There was a sparkle in Jonathan’s eyes as he spoke, one that hadn’t been there earlier when doubt had shadowed his brows .
The Keeper, on the other hand, maintained a skeptical eye. However, the slight tilt of her head suggested she was intrigued.
“I don’t believe wielders corrupted our lands. Quite the opposite. I believe they were largely responsible for making it viable in the first place, and the effects we’re seeing now are a result of their absence.”
“A bold claim,” Keeper Saintgarden remarked. “And what evidence do you have of this?”
“Not much,” Jonathan admitted. “Texts pertaining to wielding and magic were largely destroyed or heavily redacted when the New Laws came to be. That said, combing through thousands of texts would be an undoubtedly tedious job, likely imparted to low-level historians and students. Can’t fault them for missing the occasional mention, especially those that were less explicit.” The corner of Jonathan’s mouth quirked upward. “I came across several accounts denoting the presence of rain whisperers and earth healers amongst farming communities,” he explained. “Though my knowledge of magic is less than rudimentary, I do believe it has ties to the natural world, no? If that’s the case, I’m inclined to believe these were wielders who worked alongside farmers to cultivate the land.”
Jonathan met the Keeper’s gaze. “Look, I’m aware this is largely conjecture. If what I’ve said is nothing more than inane musings, simply say the word and I shall pay it no mind any longer. But, if any of it rings true, I ask that you consider helping me uncover the truth about magic and wielding. I believe they could hold the key to overcoming our agricultural challenges. Imagine not having to rely so heavily on overpriced, imported commodities.”
Keeper Saintgarden didn’t answer right away. When she did, Rosalind thought she glimpsed a softness in her eyes. “Chancellor, you’re a fool if you think wielding has any place in Sauvign.”
“It did once; who’s to say it can’t happen again one day.” Jonathan held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Now, that’s not to say I think wielding will be legal again anytime soon. I don’t know enough about it to even be sure it should. But I do know magic isn’t all bad, so perhaps wielding isn’t either. And if it could help people put more food on the table, I’d say it’s worth looking into.”
Keeper Saintgarden sat back in her seat, arms crossed, regarding Jonathan. She looked on the verge of answering when her gaze flicked to something, or rather, someone over his shoulder.
“Ah, you’ve come. Good.”
Rosalind followed Keeper Saintgarden’s gaze to a man striding toward their table. He wore a billowing black shirt tucked into fitted brown trousers. Over his shirt, he wore a black suede vest that draped to his knees. Two brass buckles crossed one another atop his abdomen, securing the vest snugly around his broad chest. As he made his way over, he pushed back the hood he wore, revealing shoulder-length brown hair, the top half swept back in a knot.
Without a word, he settled onto the bench beside the Keeper, opposite Valentina. His eyes darted from her to Rosalind and then to Jonathan. After a moment, his eyes shifted back to Rosalind, which made her bristle. She chewed at her lip and stared down at her mug, avoiding his lingering gaze.
The Keeper made introductions, beginning with Jonathan. “And this is Sylvan Raynor,” she said of the dark cloud beside her. “Sylvan here assists me in overseeing the cares and concerns of our village. And I daresay he knows the ins and outs of the borderlands better than I do.”
Jonathan dipped his head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Raynor.”
The man eyed him warily and scoffed. Rosalind half-expected him to offer up a snide remark, but instead, he turned his attention to her.
“Carver, hmm? Whereabouts the border is your family from?” he asked in a deeper voice than she had anticipated .
Rosalind shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Somewhere east of here, I believe.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Does this village not have a name?”
She blinked. “Yes, of-of course,” she stammered. “Only I… well, I-I can’t recall it. I haven’t lived there in quite some time.” Under the table, she tugged anxiously at the sleeves of her sweater.
“It’s not often our folk venture beyond the borderlands. Hard to make a living when so many think us a thieving, rebellious, and unrefined sort.” He threw Jonathan a pointed look before returning his attention to Rosalind. “How is it that you found yourself in Proper, and, as it appears, in the good graces of high society?”
“I wouldn’t go as far as to say all of high society,” she murmured. “And to answer your question, I left because my father wasn’t well. He could no longer take care of me and sent me to live with a relative.”
“What of your mother?”
Rosalind shook her head. “It was only my father and I.”
“Interesting. I’m curious why he chose to send you away. You see, we borderlanders take care of our own. I would have expected those in your village to come to your father’s aid.”
Rosalind squirmed under his scrutiny. “Well, had circumstances been different, then perhaps—”
“What’s with the inquisition, Mr. Raynor?” Valentina interjected before she could finish. “You seem awfully concerned about my friend’s upbringing.” She leaned closer toward Rosalind as if to shield her. “Isn’t my brother the one you should be interrogating? He’s the bloody Chancellor after all. He’s the reason why we’re here.”
“Your friend? I didn’t know high society considered their servants as friends.”
“That is a baseless assumption, sir. Rosalind is not our serv—”
Cutting Valentina off, Sylvan added, “And no, I don’t care much for politics. I trust Serena has things covered where the Chancellor is concerned.”
“Then why are you even here?” she bit back.
A smirk flitted across Sylvan’s lips. “I could ask you the same thing, princess. What role does the Chancellor’s sister play in such matters?”
Valentina’s lip curled in disgust. “Princess? I see the patriarchy knows no bounds. Here I thought that a respite from the constraints of Proper high society would free me from the foolish assumptions and entitlement of men, but I can see now…”
The smile on Sylvan’s face quickly faded. “Don’t compare me to the likes of them,” he said, nodding in Jonathan’s direction.
“Then don’t tempt me,” Valentina replied icily.
“Alright, I think that’s enough, Sylvan.” Keeper Saintgarden let out a small sigh, giving Rosalind the sense it was not her first time saying as much to him.
“Quite,” Jonathan said in a tight voice, his gaze fixed on Valentina.
“Quinn,” the Keeper called out.
A young woman with tawny hair stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Yes, Serena?”
“When dinner is ready, please send the plates to their rooms. Our guests have traveled far and I rather suspect they’d like some time to themselves. And perhaps your father can bring up some hot water?”
She turned to Jonathan. “How does that sound?”
“Sounds perfect, thank you.”
“I will think over your request this evening, Chancellor, and give you my answer tomorrow.” The Keeper rose to her feet, and the rest of the table followed .
The young woman from the kitchen, whom the Keeper had referred to as Quinn, hurried over to them and dipped into a deep bow. She looked eagerly at the Keeper, who went about making introductions. Quinn was the daughter of Leon Stewart, the man with bushy eyebrows they had passed on their way in, and the owner of the establishment.
“My father and I are honored to have you staying at our inn. I’d be happy to show you to your rooms now.”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” Jonathan said with a warm smile. “We appreciate your hospitality. I’m very much looking forward to dinner; it smells wonderful.”
Though the tavern was dimly lit, Rosalind could make out the broad grin and deep blush that swept across Quinn’s cheeks.
“Let me show you to your rooms. We have one prepared for you and one for your sisters.”
“Sister,” Jonathan corrected as they made their way to the stairs at the back of the tavern. “Just the one. Ros and I are not related. Not even remotely so. We are”—he hesitated for the briefest of moments—“close friends. Have been for a very long time.”
“Speak for yourself, brother. She’s very much like a sister to me,” Valentina said, reaching out to playfully pinch Rosalind’s cheek.
Nose scrunched, Rosalind batted away Valentina’s hand before nudging her to follow Jonathan and Quinn up the stairs. Following suit, Rosalind was just about to clear the first step when someone grabbed hold of her wrist. Glancing back, she was startled to discover Sylvan.
“Mr. Raynor?”
“Miss Carver, I—” he began, but before he could finish, his attention caught on where his hand gripped hers. A look of surprise flashed across his face, and whatever else he was going to say died on his tongue. He pushed her arm away and stumbled back a step, muttering to himself .
When he met her gaze, Rosalind saw his pupils were blown impossibly wide. His chest moved in quick, shallow bursts as if trying to catch his breath. Equal parts confused and concerned, she began to ask, “Are you alright—”
“I must go,” he mumbled hastily. “Good evening.”
And with that, Sylvan spun on his heel and walked away, leaving Rosalind to wonder what had just happened.