CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ALYSSUM
Despite Haize’s proclamation that the busy season was upon Cobble Crossing, the tavern remained just as deserted for supper as I’d seen it earlier.
A pair of men sat by the door, speaking in hushed voices with their hoods raised.
An older man and woman with a child between them occupied the bar, all wearing matching blue cloaks and appearing rather despondent from what I could make out.
And, finally, a small group of women in threadbare tunics stood by the opposite wall, their long, bony fingers tracing lines on the wood while one scribbled on a scrap of parchment.
If it weren’t for the undeniably appetizing scents drifting from the kitchens, I would have doubted that food was served here at all, given how few people claimed tables at sundown.
As if it were the most natural occurrence for us to be dining together, Vayen gestured towards a table in the farthest corner, away from the other patrons. I nodded without a word, too consumed by the prospect of eating a decent meal without my wrists bound to care where we sat or what we ate.
I situated myself with my back to the stairs, allowing for an unobstructed view of the common area.
There was no bell above the door, I noticed, but instead symbols—glyphs, Vayen had been calling them—glowing faintly in the dim lighting.
I observed as the tavern door swept open, a woman and young girl whose brown hair and soft features were mirrored in one another, ushering in from the cold.
They breathed into their cupped hands as they hobbled over to the bar where Haize appeared from the kitchens to wordlessly hand them a key.
Brown cloaks drawn tightly over their middles, they hurried through the common area and ascended the staircase without so much as an upward glance.
It was then Haize turned his attention to Vayen, gaze flitting my way a couple of times during their exchange. I studied his face, wondering if he might feel the slightest bit of guilt for assisting her with my captivity. Doubtful.
Vayen rested her forearm on the bar, that striking profile visible in the flickering light of a nearby sconce.
The shadows cast over her long eyelashes and defined jawline had no business accentuating the most prominent of her features.
I didn’t want to notice how it seemed the stars took great care in crafting her face, but denying her beauty would have been about as effective as denying that winter’s second cycle followed its first.
Her curls had begun creeping down her neck during my time in Grenythwood, threatening to brush against her jaw when she leaned forward, though it seemed she’d cropped them during the night while I’d remained under the effects of that damnable lullawort.
My resentment simmered at the very thought, but then a barely-there smile pulled at the corner of her cheek, summoning the slightest indent of that star-forsaken dimple, and I was captivated.
The firelight afforded a perfectly bronze glow over her light brown skin, and I wondered if it was as soft as it looked.
When Vayen glanced my way, I realized a moment too late that I’d been caught staring, and affixed my attention to one of the larger glyphs on the nearby wall as though my focus had been varied from the start.
If only the subsequent mortification heating my cheeks weren’t always so damn visible.
If I was very, very lucky, the dim lighting of the tavern might spare my pride.
But the soft smirk that quirked her lips as she approached told another story. With one sweeping movement of her leg, Vayen draped herself over the wooden stool opposite me before placing the linen bag of cookies on the table.
I decided then that I would find the easy grace with which she maneuvered to be annoying, and not at all appealing. Also, I would not be eating the cookies. I had to enjoy what little defiance I was capable of exhibiting while I still could.
“Do you like woolhorn stew?” Vayen asked, tilting her head to the side and causing some of the curls on her forehead to shift.
I bit back the sarcastic remark that hovered on my tongue.
Even though Vayen was my captor and deserved every bit of my ire, she also had the power to bind me once more if she chose, and I very much enjoyed my newfound freedom.
That was the reason I responded to her without the irritation I’d wielded all day, I reminded myself—it had nothing to do with her stealing the breath from my lungs by detailing how powerful and capable she thought I could be.
“What’s a woolhorn?” I asked cautiously. I didn’t want to be skeptical of the meal I was being offered, but Grenythwood was filled with all sorts of flora and fauna I had little interest ingesting.
“Two-legged beast with curved horns the size of my arms. Very wide necks. They have this thick, wavy fur that’s much softer than it ought to be. Wouldn’t mind a blanket made of that fur one day.”
“They’re not… friendly and adorable, though? You wouldn’t keep one for a pet?”
“Depths no,” Vayen managed through a laugh. “It’ll gouge your eyes out the second it can. Not sure why they enjoy eating eyeballs so much, but if you stumble across a bunch of corpses without—” she used two fingers to gesture towards the middle of her face “—I suggest you start running.”
I crossed my arms as I leaned away from the table, forehead pinching in disbelief. The idea of an eyeball-consuming animal was less than appetizing. “You’re just trying to frighten me.”
“Wish I were, Princess.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of a creature like that.”
“Well, if you've never heard of it, then it must not exist,” Vayen said, matching my tone.
My eyes narrowed reflexively in annoyance. “Sounds like something out of a storybook to me. Have you ever seen one?”
“‘Course I have. Not a friendly lot, but they make for a fine stew.”
Despite all that had happened, I doubted very much that Vayen would go so far as to lie about seeing the creature herself. The sigh that escaped me was resigned.
“I’ve never tried it,” I admitted with a weak attempt at appearing unenthusiastic.
“How does it smell?”
I raked my teeth over my lower lip, once again noticing how the action drew Vayen’s eye.
“Fine,” I said tightly. It was a damn lie and we both knew it; I was salivating at the very thought of feasting on an eyeball-obsessed woolhorn.
For two days I’d only been offered cold bread, dry meat, and bright yellow berries that Vayen had to reassure me—through a berry-filled mouth—were not poisonous.
A thick, hearty stew was exactly what I needed to build up my strength in preparation for whatever escape opportunity might materialize before me.
“Well,” Vayen began, an undercurrent of amusement undoubtedly responsible for the quick lift of her eyebrows, “I hope it tastes just as fine as it smells, then.”
I didn’t allow the smile pulling at my lips to surface in its entirety, and instead took to clearing my throat as Haize approached with two mugs that appeared to have been fashioned from woven tree roots.
The handles were wide and gnarled, neither was uniform in shape, and—as I was growing to expect—both were etched with several glyphs, a couple of which supplied a faint glow against the dark wood.
“Stew’ll be done momentarily,” Haize grunted, his too-deep voice nearly vibrating my bones. Without awaiting a reply, he shuffled back to the door behind the bar.
I didn’t hesitate. I palmed the knotted handle and took an enthusiastic sip, eyebrows pitching the moment chilled, bitter liquid slicked over my tongue.
It was a tad thicker than I’d expected, but I wouldn’t let that deter me.
I took three or four solid gulps before I came up for air, my eyes rolling with the pleasure of knowing some small amount of relief would ease my pain when the drink took hold.
“Thirsty?” Vayen quipped, taking her own swig.
“So it would seem,” I managed, using my tongue to swipe at my upper lip. Vayen’s silver eyes reflected the weak flame in the center of our table, caught on my mouth once more, and I fought the urge to squirm beneath her attention. I was grateful when she broke the silence.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s… surprising. I’ve never tasted anything like it before, and I didn’t expect it to be cold. I’m imagining these”—I ran my fingertips over the glyphs on my mug—“have something to do with it.”
“Same as your hot bath,” Vayen confirmed with a bow of her head. “And the tavern itself. You’ll have noticed the lack of hearths.”
“I actually had not noticed that,” I admitted.
“Must have been distracted by…” I sunk my teeth into my lower lip as I forced down the sharp words on the brink of being spoken.
Instead, I tucked a stubborn wave of pale hair behind one ear, gazing into the dark liquid of my mug before taking another healthy sip.
“You can handle your drink,” she commented.
“Not really. But I feel the same way about drunkenness as I do about cursing.” I arched an eyebrow, an unspoken challenge of her memory.
The tautness that so often plagued Vayen’s eyes softened briefly, and it seemed she looked through me as she searched for my hidden meaning. I knew the exact moment the memory came to her by the rare smile I received.
“Ah,” she said finally through a soft chuckle. “If there were ever a time to start?”
I raised my mug before echoing the sentiment I’d wielded when I was tied to that damnable traveling cart. “If there were ever a time to start!” And then I threw back another gulp.
Vayen tilted her head, seemingly both amused and content to observe me in my state.