CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ALYSSUM
After only half a month in Grenythwood as an Ugly Tankard tavern maid, I felt I had undergone a transformation.
I wasn’t particularly good at it—apparently I lacked the requisite grace to balance a loaded serving platter one-handed, and had since banished from my memory the incident that prompted this realization—but I was learning, I was capable, and the fate of the entire village did not rest on my shoulders.
What a weight to place on a child, I thought as I swept the flagstone, my Hollow boots scuffing the floor with each step.
My mind continued to wander, searching for memories that never used to hold my interest.
“A Treaty Princess is the most special girl in all of Lunamor. The three Treaty Kingdoms rely on her to fulfill her sacred duties, for all our sakes. You’re special, Princess Alyssum. A very special girl indeed,” Tilda said, inclining her head seriously.
“What are her duties?” I asked with an upturned nose, clearly unconvinced.
“One day, you will marry a handsome prince who will whisk you off to Hollowmire. When he ascends to the throne, you will be his queen.”
“But why? What for? And what if I don’t want to?” I clutched my doll to my chest, not quite liking the sound of this Treaty nonsense; what did any of it have to do with me?
“One question at a time, Princess.”
But those questions were never answered, save for the last.
Ekko loudly draped herself over the bar from her perch on an empty stool.
Today she wore a black dress with a slit up each side, revealing thin, ghostly legs and dark leather boots.
Her feet hung far from the ground, and she swung them back and forth, seemingly unfulfilled by the tavern’s emptiness.
I returned my focus to the broom, sweeping dust straight out the open tavern door.
I cast only a short glance at the village outside with its looming trees and damp, uninviting darkness.
Both Catrin and Milo had been too busy to visit, and I hadn’t yet summoned the courage to roam the village alone.
“Where’d you run off to?” Ekko asked in that same somber tone.
“What do you mean?” I said, voice laced with confusion. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“In your head”—Ekko pointed to her temple, twisting her finger dramatically—“you most certainly did.”
“Oh.” I closed the tavern door, the small bell’s ring piercing the suddenly thick silence. “I was contemplating how different Grenythwood is.”
“Different from Sor?”
“From Lunamor. Sor is another beast entirely,” I said with absolute confidence.
Every moment I hadn’t been working had been spent poring over Catrin’s books, and my head was now swirling with Soran facts.
I’d learned about the first settlers who climbed atop the mountain, and the perilous task of constructing Castle Sor.
I’d learned of the theories surrounding Morwyn’s moons, and why they appeared almost purple from the extensive elevation.
There was even a vague reference to the Treaty in one of her volumes, though it offered nothing new, unfortunately.
But even more than the history books, the children’s tales had captivated me.
The creatures that Soran children believed in were as fantastical as they were frightening.
More surprisingly, there was very little overlap between the myths of Sor and the myths of Lunamor—I’d expected some differences, but instead found myself struggling to identify commonalities.
The only recognizable creatures were the man-eating wolves said to reside in Grenythwood Forest. But not only had I not seen a single wolf since arriving, Milo hadn’t mentioned them once during our trek from the Threshold to the village.
And who would send a small boy into the woods himself if they were infested with gargantuan wolves that relentlessly preyed on humans?
“Gullible and stupid?"
Linus’ face flashed in my mind’s eye. The only thing I hated more than remembering him was the confusing, traitorous pang that pierced my chest at the thought of his memory fading.
How dare I miss someone who treated me so poorly. He doesn’t deserve an errant thought, let alone—
“There you go again.” Ekko summoned me to the present moment with her gentle drawl, the toe of her boot smacking rhythmically into the bar. She traced the wood’s imperfections with enough force to further whiten her already milky fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” I managed with a heavy sigh. “I’m finding it unusually difficult to—”
“Forget? Exist only here? Repress your memories?”
I paused midstep, gripping the broom handle with both hands to steady myself. “How did you know?”
“Happens sometimes, with unveiling,” she mumbled, as if she didn’t really want to talk about this much at all. “It’s harder on some than others.”
I had the distinct feeling she was speaking from personal experience.
“Does it get easier?”
“Once you stop running,” Winnie said from the bottom of the stairs, her attention fixed on Ekko. She approached her wife at the bar, mumbling something against her skin before planting a kiss on her temple. “Let’s get you in the back. Folks will be coming in droves soon enough.”
Winnie had been right about the droves. She’d even pulled Gallia from her chambermaid duties to assist in the common area.
Gallia, who was far superior in terms of managing the serving platter, had taken over servicing the tables alongside Winnie, while I poured drinks from the various casks and barrels behind the bar.
I’d started silently cursing the tavern’s popularity as ravenous villagers continued to swarm the place.
That damnable bell, with its unassuming brass body capable of a rather piercing chime, was the precursor to sharp, frozen wind whenever the door swung open.
As if she’d read my mind, Winnie threw additional logs into the hearth, prompting the welcomed sputtering of sparks.
Between the orders of Soran brandy, worm dill ale, mulled wine simmered with mammoth root, and an innumerable amount of herbal infusions, my hands were quite full.
Not literally, thankfully for everyone involved, but I was definitely wearing into my Hollow boots quite comfortably by the third or fourth night of serving supper.
I’d worn Catrin’s plain, storm cloud dress again, having taken a liking to its flattering cut and the way it swished across the flagstone when I dashed from one end of the bar to the next.
“Pardon, could we please have two warm ciders for the children?” An older man asked, his swirling grey hair shining under the candlelight.
“Right away!” I relished the swoosh of my dress as I turned on my heel and bounded into the kitchen.
I took the long way around the island to avoid Ekko, who was even less communicative when interrupted while cooking.
I ladled two tankards with steaming cider before carefully sidestepping Ekko once more, using only my back to open the door.
I turned purposefully, scanning for the man who ordered the cider, when instead I found a pair of sharp, silver eyes with a startling starburst of green around the pupil, visible even in the candlelight. My breath hitched, cider sloshing precariously in the tankards as I stood frozen.
The older man waved his hand in my periphery, his call barely sounding above the tavern’s lively atmosphere. “Are those for me?”
It took longer than it should have for his question to pierce my recognition, full attention lost in those peculiar eyes. But when the silver-eyed woman tilted her head with a barely-there smile playing on the edges of her lips, as though she found my sudden ineptitude amusing, I remembered myself.
“Yes, of course. Two ciders for the children.” I tore my gaze away, placing the steaming tankards on the bar with a polite nod.
The man smiled sympathetically before grasping the tankards and retreating into the crowd.
I surveyed the bar, ensuring no one required my presence, before refocusing on her.
And there she sat, still observing me. So I observed her right back, cataloguing her features and running them through my memory.
Dark curls, barely sweeping the tops of her eyebrows, cropped at the neck in the back.
Full lips and an angular jawline, backdropped by light brown skin with bronze undertones.
She was pretty, but not in an obvious, overly feminine way.
I recognized the telltale signs of strength I’d witnessed from my time as a Sentinel—those shoulders, relatively broad for her tapered waist, and the line of muscle carving its way down her smooth forearm extending from the rolled-up sleeves of her off-white shirt.
Finally, my attention fell to her hands.
The casual way they rested atop the bar would fool no one; those hands were capable, and I somehow knew I’d been touched by them before. I was absolutely certain of it.
Vayen.
“Suits you more,” she said suddenly, motioning in my direction.
“Pardon me?” I drew nearer, tentatively standing before her. “What was that?”
“I said, suits you more. Than the Hollow costume you showed up in.” Those odd eyes gave me a rather extensive once-over, and there was nothing I could do to dissuade the warmth creeping upwards, prickling its way towards my cheeks.
So instead of ignoring it entirely, I leaned into the sliver of blush fueled by irritation rather than flattery. “It was not a costume,” I said with narrowed eyes. “It was genuine Hollow attire made of their finest silks, if you must know.”
“How’s a Scholar’s apprentice get their hands on the finest Hollow silk?”