Chapter Forty-One Claire
Dear Council, I beg your guidance. I fear Noctu’s aim is improving.
Chapter Forty-One
Claire
The echo of Abel’s touch greets me when I wake.
Sitting up, I cocoon the furs around me and tuck my tangled hair behind my ear.
Warmth pours through the open tent flap.
Our campfire crackles anew. The skies are clear.
The position of the suns suggests the hour is close to noon.
Knowing so much of the day is already gone makes my heart skip a beat.
Abel, fully clothed, sits by the fire and pours a red-gold drink into a cup. Beside his boots, a second cup waits in the snow. It steams invitingly.
“What did you make?” I sniff the air. Cinnamon?
“Apple cider. I tried to re-create the recipe from Ascension Day. Care to see how it turned out?”
“I’d love anything you make, even if it’s terrible,” I tease, putting on my clothes. When he approaches the tent’s mouth, I accept a kiss.
“Good morning, ma belle,” he says, and offers a cup.
We eat fruit and cheese for breakfast. Every bite explodes with flavor more vivid than anything I’ve ever tasted. The sensation dwindles too quickly. Every bite feels like my last.
“Abel, this mountain is deserted,” I whisper. “There’s no sign of any cultists, or of anything that could be called water of life.”
“There’s plenty of territory left to explore on the map.”
“But that map was marked up from the prisoner’s actions in human form,” I counter. “He knew you were desperate for a cure. What if the phrase ‘eau de vie’ was another trick to lure you to where they could kill you?”
“Unlikely. The prisoner was saying that phrase to the gendarmes before I was present.” He lowers his cider. “Even if it was a trick, the owl constellation is not. Neither are your instincts.”
“What if my instincts are leading you into danger?”
“Marshal Payen would’ve turned us back if she had any concerns. Besides, the full moon is tonight. It gives us plenty of time to uncover the truth.” His shoulders tense. “You still want to search, don’t you?”
“I do. But if we don’t find a cure before daybreak—”
“We talked about this. You’ll take your sleep powder, and we’ll start back down the mountain. Nothing will stop me from fulfilling my promise to slay you next month, when the conditions are right.” He kisses my cheek. “But I have a good feeling about this journey, Claire. Trust me.”
Hope lightens his step as he disassembles our tent, but I can’t partake in his optimism. We haven’t arrested any cultists, found their stronghold, or located a single clue to improve our understanding of the Gods’ magic. My fingers tighten around my cider as I let the tears fall.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
He pauses his work, expression softening. “So am I. But I choose to believe the fawna means luck is on our side.”
I don’t reply.
A fawna sighting means nothing to me.