Chapter 39 #2
I slump on the other stool. I slap the table, brightening. “Staying here is better. They won’t be expecting that.” I snatch his hand holding the stone king, and infuse a spell into him. His dark hair greys and whitens.
Quin eyes a strand and blows it away from his face, staring at me.
“Hear me out,” I say. “A wizened version of yourself is your best disguise.”
He plunks the white king onto the board.
“This way, your cane won’t give you away.”
He picks up a vitalian and throttles it with his fingers.
“Also,” I say, prying the poor piece off him, “if you’re recognised and your uncle’s spies are about, maybe they’ll think you’re close to keeling over and leave you alone. Now if you’d hunch—”
He tosses a pawn at me.
I catch it, laughing. “We can save the hunching for when we’re out in public. For a man who’s always acting, you’re awfully picky about your appearance.”
“How long before my hair turns dark again?”
“Leeching the colour is simple. Returning it . . .” It’s a fiddly spell. Each strand has to be done individually. Hard on the eyes.
“How long?”
I shuffle away from him. He could dye it. Otherwise . . . “How fast does it grow?”
After a restless night on the cold floor, I’m roused by the early light filtering through the curtains. The smirk I give Quin over our breakfast has him gnashing his teeth like he’d rather eat me.
When he’s finished with his food, I send a spell his way. He raises his brow through it, but doesn’t dodge me. “Changes the shape of your jaw,” I say. “To immerse you in the role. Otherwise you’re a flawless deity with white hair.”
“You’re right, of course.”
“About immersing yourself?”
He tosses a strand of hair elegantly to the side. “And the other bit.”
I laugh, and though Quin smiles it doesn’t last long. His gaze keeps landing on my cloak. I rearrange the fabric over my shoulders, shift and straighten it, but Quin is still eyeing it with concern.
I drag my stool before him. “You fix it then.”
He jerks suddenly, as if pulled from a deep thought, and reaches for my clasp. His voice is quiet, wistful. “I’m so often wrong,” he admits, a weight settling in his gaze. “If it saves your life, do it. I command you to.”
“Do it?”
“Anything that keeps you alive. Even if it means throwing this away a thousand times.”
My breath catches; he drops his hand, and clears his throat. “We need money.”
“For our journey.”
“To get your love token back.”
I brighten. “Best brother-in-law ever.”
I go in for a hug and he palms my forehead to stop me. “Eat your breakfast while I think.”
“Don’t forget to calculate that we’ve only one more night here.”
“Mm.”
I finish my bread and tea and interrupt a pensive Quin again. “How about we make some fun out of this?”
“Fun?”
“See who can make the most in a day?”
“I’d prefer you to stay indoors. Out of sight, of vespertines or your former intended.”
“Quin—”
“You won’t agree to it, I know.” Unhappiness and resignation flicker across his face, but he soon shakes it off. He sits me on a cushion before him and reaches towards my hair; my hand instinctively flies to my head.
He murmurs. “Braiding. Not undoing.”
Right. Of course.
I slowly drop my hand and my scalp tickles as he plaits a long silver ribbon into my hair. The ancient custom of grieving. “Mourning robes aren’t enough?”
“Mourning robes are typical in bigger towns, the capital and royal city. In the country, these older traditions are still prominent.”
“I like that you understand the cultural nuances of your kingdom.”
“Trust me, I’m putting that to good use today.”
“Oh?”
“Keep still.” He steers my face away from him, towards the window, and his fingers flutter through my hair.
I murmur, “This feels . . . nice. I could go back to sleep.” After a pause, the ticklish touches continue, and so do I. “Have you ever worn a ribbon like this before?”
“Mm.”
“When your father passed away?”
“For him, I wore mourning robes. I wore the ribbon when he was still alive. For three months prior to my wedding, begging him to let me choose for myself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thankfully, Veronica and I understand one another.”
I tip my head back and eye him. “She wants you both to find your own happiness.”
His lips curve gently, sadly; he flicks my nose and adjusts my head again.
When he’s done with my hair, I craft him some pain relief in the shape of his sole and insert it into his boot, then hand him his cane.
The town square buzzes with gentle activity and though it’s not bustling, it’s a stark contrast to the quiet of the inn. Quin and I exchange looks, silently sizing up our competition.
My stomach lurches between excitement and worry as he drags himself away.
A kind seller offers me use of half their table, and I set up a stall offering simple spells for health.
By midday, I’m both impressed at how effective the disguise is and unimpressed at its unwanted consequence.
Other than my tablemate, everyone avoids me and my billowing silver ribbon.
Even a squad of redcloaks puts extra room between us as they march past.
“They think you’re bad luck,” my neighbour says. “Folk this side of the mountains all the way to Hinsard are very superstitious.”
“And you?”
“Come from the west; don’t believe such hoo-ha. At home, ribbons are treated with respect. Given food, drink, chores taken over by friends and neighbours. Here, you’re avoided like the plague because you just might bring one.”
The ghost of Quin’s touch stirs in my hair, and I frown.
He only suggested the ribbon after I suggested we compete—
I tug it out of my hair and wrap it around my wrist. “Three months are up today,” I tell my curious and kind neighbour.
The now-unravelled plaits have left my hair crinkled; hopefully that’s enough of a disguise.
Finally, people start approaching, but they aren’t after spells—they’re after herbs for fever and rashes, for sick family at home.
I suggest they visit the dispensary, but they grimace and leave again, until one tells me, “It’s shut. ”
Shut? In the middle of the day?
I pack up my box and head to the store. Indeed, the doors are closed, and a sign reads it will reopen soon.
I sense movement behind the door, and knock. A shadow flitters past on the other side but no one opens. I knock again and again until finally the door cracks open an inch and the young, shifty-eyed dispenser from yesterday eyes me. “We’ll reopen soon.”
Something’s wrong. Too guarded. Too pale.
“I’ve had at least five people asking for essential herbs. If you’re indisposed, I can distribute them on your behalf.”
The dispenser notices my box. “You came in yesterday.” Suppressed hope glimmers in their eyes. “You’re a travelling vitalian?”
I nod.
“Thank the heavens.”
They open the door and yank me inside. My foot hits the threshold and what’s supposed to be a quick and sneaky entrance turns into a fall, taking the dispenser with me.
We hit the stone floor with a startled cry and my hurried apologies.
The dispenser blinks in horror at our proximity, and I understand.
They’re dressed in male clothing, assuming a male profession, but their body is petite and curvy in womanly places. Anxiety fills large black eyes. I jump to my feet and put distance between us.
“Please don’t— Most here know. This is the only way I can officially run this dispensary.”
I shake my head emphatically. “I’d never report . . . women should be allowed . . .”
She sighs, picks herself up from the floor, and dusts her robes while I cast my eye around the emptied shelves and tables. “The delivery didn’t come?”
She hisses, rushing to shut the doors. The heavy thud of the lock echoes in the silence, and the room suddenly feels cold with foreboding.
She peers through the narrow gap between the shutters, her shoulders taut with tension.
When she turns around, there’s something in her quick, nervous movements that makes me frown.
And her words make me shiver. “Last thing we need is to cause a panic.”