CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE #2
“There is quite a circulation of Hollow silk in Lunamor,” I said easily, even as my heartbeat quickened beneath her unwavering gaze.
The fact that I wasn’t a Hollow was apparently as easy to discern as the time of day, so why did she care where I’d received the fabric from?
I raised a hand to trail down my braid, forgetting that I’d worn my hair up, and quickly redirected the movement to smooth out my dress. “And thank you.”
“For what?”
“You said this suits me more. Or was that not meant to be a compliment?” I asked curtly, turning away from her as a stout couple approached the bar requesting porters.
My movements were sharp as I grabbed three tankards and filled them to the brim.
I cast a glance Vayen’s way, only to see that I still had her eye—and was that a whisper of a smirk quirking her features?
Once I sent the couple on their way, I returned to my stoic, silver-eyed watcher and placed the third tankard before her unceremoniously, a bit of the porter fleeing down the side.
She eyed the drink before bringing it to her face and inhaling deeply. Without a trace of emotion, she returned the tankard to the bar and pushed it in my direction.
“I prefer ale.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
When her only reply was silence, I rolled my eyes and gripped the handle, bringing the tankard to my lips and taking a large pull of the dark, yeasty porter.
It was bitter on my tongue in a familiar, comforting way.
I set the remainder before her once more before dabbing at the corners of my lips with a bit of apron. “Tastes fine to me, but if you insist—”
“I’ll finish it,” she said suddenly, seizing the handle with her left hand. I watched with rapt attention as the tankard twisted in her grasp, her lips hovering directly where mine had before taking her own large sip.
My eyes drew to the column of her throat as it worked, then back to her own gaze that hadn’t once wavered from my own.
Her passive expression remained unreadable.
I found myself wishing I knew what to make of her, though I wasn’t ever very good at that sort of thing, and the shiver snaking down my spine—both fearful and rousing—did little to help my assessment of the situation.
Those silver hues, pinned on my face, and then I was the one swallowing hard.
Something about her seemed vaguely dangerous, but what I’d felt in her arms during my unveiling was indicative of the opposite…
For some inexplicable reason, she had made me feel safe.
“You deserve a proper thank you,” I said casually. And when her silence was devoid of recognition, “For bringing me to Catrin.”
“Well?” She leaned forward, placing both elbows atop the bar and assessing me with a singularly raised, expectant eyebrow.
“Well what?”
“Where’s my proper thank you?” Her attention fell to my lips, as if she wanted to watch the words escape them.
“Haven’t I already given it?” My throat tightened and I prayed the disinterested expression I’d hoped to maintain was at all convincing.
“Saying I deserve a proper thank you and actually thanking me are not the same thing.” The corner of her left lip indented to summon a dimple I absolutely did not find attractive.
“Aren’t they?” I asked curiously, turning on my heel without prompting to assess the casks behind me, as though there was something very important that needed tending to.
In reality, my heartbeat had a mind of its own and I felt vaguely capable of fainting.
I’d never fainted before… I wasn’t even sure I believed in fainting, yet there I stood, decidedly weak in the legs and light in the head.
Had I not eaten enough? Was it the porter?
But I could feel those silver eyes piercing the back of my neck and knew it was neither.
“All right there, Lyssa?” Winnie clapped me on the back as she walked by. The smell of burnt wood clung to her, and I inhaled deeply to ground myself in the scent.
“Yes!” I squeaked out before clearing my throat. “Yes, I’m managing well. Just… wiping these down…” I quickly began running my rag over the wood that had no need for it.
“Gallia had to stoke the guest fires, and there’s a couple of men by the hearth who need their tankards filled. Mind handling that?” Winnie asked, though her focus settled on the bar.
I paused my unnecessary dusting and followed her gaze to Vayen.
The two were locked on one another as if they were deep in a silent conversation I wasn’t privy to.
Clearly there was some sort of issue between them, because even as I mumbled a quick “of course” and shuffled on by, neither paid me any mind.
I stopped by the two men Winnie had referenced, clasping my hands at the edge of their table.
I opened my mouth to repeat Gallia’s greeting, but as the second man lowered his hood to reveal dark stringy hair and bulging eyes, I pressed my lips together instead.
It was Merl, the man who had accosted me and Catrin on our way to the Ugly Tankard, and suddenly all thoughts of silver-green eyes and light-headedness evaporated.
“What do we have here?” he said with a humored smirk. “Workin’ at the tavern now, I see.”
I bit back a sarcastic remark and instead nodded, smiling tightly.
“Indeed. What shall I bring your table?” I tilted my head to survey Merl’s companion, instinctively resisting the urge to take a large step back.
Where Merl was thin and wiry, this man was rather filled out, specifically around the middle.
His notable features, visible even in the dim lighting, were fleeing grey hair and a long scar marring his protruding chin.
I wouldn’t have spared his off-putting demeanor a second thought had his bruised eyes not slithered down my form, pausing on their way back up only once reaching the neckline of my dress.
With pursed lips, I returned my attention to Merl, the self-proclaimed Shadowmonger somehow the more favorable patron to interact with.
Merl sucked on his teeth as he draped an arm over the empty chair beside him. “A plate of sausages, some bread, and we’ll have some o’ that Soran brandy on your behalf.”
“Hey now,” his companion hissed. “I can’t afford none of that.”
“I’ll pay for the brandy, you twat.”
I wanted very much to ask Merl to never do anything on my behalf, but I had spent too much of my life around ill-tempered men to recklessly indulge in my sour attitude. Instead, I muttered, “I’ll be back with your brandy shortly,” and walked to the bar more heavy-footed than I had left it.
Vayen and Winnie’s silent conversation was now anything but, though I was too consumed by my own thoughts to notice what it was they heatedly discussed. I breezed by them, utilizing both forearms to shove the kitchen door open.
“A plate of lukewarm sausages and stale bread, when you have a moment.”
Ekko stood over a massive bubbling cauldron of stew with a passive expression. “Making enemies already?”
“It’s Merl.” And as those words escaped me, Ekko bowed her head in understanding. “He’s chosen to bring along an even more lovely companion whose eyes never once met mine, but instead found themselves lost in my breasts.”
“That would be Kroul,” Ekko said with a sigh. “Lukewarm sausages and stale bread it is, then. Too bad I don’t have anything molded lying around.”
The humored scoff that escaped me was involuntary. “I will never be able to repay this debt.”
“I know.” Ekko loosed a rare smile that barely bracketed her mouth. But just like that, it disappeared, her lips settling into that familiar line. “It’ll be ready in a moment.”
“Thank you,” I said as I grabbed two warmed brandy glasses.
With a deep inhalation, I raised my chin, reminding myself that even though I may no longer be afforded the protections of a Princess, I still deserved to feel comfortable and safe the same as anyone else, just as Catrin had said.
I would not allow leering, off-putting men to topple me.
So I returned to the bar, my sudden presence silencing Vayen mid-sentence.
Winnie appeared exasperated. Vayen’s expression softened when our eyes met, which I had no ability to interpret.
I wanted to linger and perhaps learn more of what they discussed, but with courage waning, my desire to serve Merl and his companion so that they might leave the Ugly Tankard was stronger.
With my head held high, I approached Merl’s table with only his sinister, lopsided grin as greeting.
I faced him, avoiding his companion entirely.
“Two glasses of Soran brandy,” I said, leaning slightly to place the warm glasses before them. “Your supper will be—”
It was sudden. The ghost of a hand against my backside, cupping me intimately over the linen of Catrin’s dress.
I inadvertently dropped one of the glasses.
It toppled to the floor, shattering against the flagstone as I stood upright, flushed cheeks and a constricted throat forbidding the yelp that hovered on my tongue.
But I had no time to react, because before I could truly fathom what had just occurred, the ear-splitting scream of a man sliced through me.
Placing a palm over my own mouth, I threw myself against the tavern wall—anything to distance myself from that noise—and only then was I able to see what had happened.