Chapter Sixteen #2
“All I want to do is find the book,” I said at last. “And my mother. If you can help me do that …”
“I can. I will.” The smooth certainty in his voice grated against my ears.
“Then I suppose I have no choice. For now.”
He shifted in his seat. “We will spend tonight in an inn and leave for Spire in the morning.”
“Why can’t we go now?”
“There are certain … precautions I need to take. Did you ever tell Sybil where you intended to go?”
“No, I never mentioned Spire.” That was something to be thankful for, at least.
“Good. That will buy us some time.”
The silence grew crowded with all we were leaving unsaid.
I shifted positions to lay my head more comfortably against the upholstered side of the carriage and closed my eyes, determined to feign sleep, but my body remained tense.
Beside me, I heard Patrick let out a breath and then the susurration of the furs as he apparently settled down to sleep as well.
I waited until his breath became slow and even, and then opened my eyes to look at him.
Slumber smoothed the faint lines in his face.
Without the gleam of those sharp hazel eyes, he seemed just another man—someone I wouldn’t look twice at in a crowd.
I remembered the bird skull mask he had worn when he danced with me on Plaguenight and wondered if he wore a mask still.
I must have fallen asleep eventually, because when the carriage stopped, I jerked awake.
I had drooled a little in my sleep, to my embarrassment, and I swiped at my chin surreptitiously, hoping Patrick hadn’t noticed.
He seemed wide awake and alert, poised with his hand on the doorknob as we rattled into a courtyard.
It was late, but the inn appeared to be bustling.
An ostler arrived to help with the horses, and the footman opened the door for us.
I felt groggy and disoriented—partly from sleep, and partly from the expenditure of …
whatever it was I had flung at Ban Morin’s men and used to bring Baldbeak back.
I felt strangely undefined around my edges, as if I wasn’t quite occupying the same space as everyone else.
“My lord.” The landlord, clearly recognizing Patrick, led him inside, practically folded in half with oily obsequiousness as he rubbed his hands together. Patrick barely threw him a glance, tossing the little man his travel cloak.
“Two rooms and dinner. See that the horses are fed and watered.”
“We have no rooms, my lord,” the landlord said. “We have been fully booked since—”
“Kick someone out,” said Patrick, extracting a weighty purse from his pocket and letting it fall into the landlord’s outstretched hand. “Tell them it has bedbugs. I don’t care. Just make sure my sister and I have somewhere to stay.”
“My lord—”
“A good room, too. I will know if you fob me off with anything less.”
The landlord’s mouth was still open in protest, but his fist tightened around the purse as if involuntarily.
“Of course, my lord. At once.” He looked at Baldbeak. “Is that your, ah …”
“My dearest sister”—Patrick turned to me, ignoring the landlord—“could you stoop to dinner in the shared dining room, just for one night? My stomach is complaining, and I fear I cannot wait for our private room to be prepared.”
As if awakened by his words, my own stomach gave an embarrassingly loud grumble. “That would be acceptable,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster—and then, as the landlord genuflected away, and my brain caught up to my ears, I hissed, “Sister?”
“You would prefer to be my wife?”
“What? No. I …”
“Sister it is, then.”
Patrick took my arm and drew me towards the sounds of clinking glass and cutlery coming from the dining room. When he had mentioned an inn, I had imagined a tavern—something rough and loud and anonymous—but this was the kind of establishment frequented by nobility.
The shared dining room was no raucous pub, but instead a dimly lit, discreet space where the patrons talked in low voices. He pulled out a chair for me at one of the tables, and I sat.
“And what is the poor former owner of our room supposed to do?” I murmured.
“I know not and care less,” said Patrick.
“I would rather not share a room with you.”
“Baldbeak will be there to play chaperone,” he said with the hint of a smile. When I crossed my arms, he added, “Netta, I will not touch you. Is that your worry?”
My treacherously thin skin flared in a blush. “No.”
“What, then? You heard the man. Would you prefer to sleep in the stable? I will not prevent you.”
I opened my mouth to say yes, I would much prefer to sleep in the stable, but closed it again. A bath and a soft feather bed … a fire … I hated myself for it, but I could not resist their appeal.
“You could sleep in the stable,” I said instead.
“My sense of honor doesn’t extend that far. Besides, the innkeeper might find it rather suspect if Lord Foley bedded down among the horses.”
“Fine.”
He gave an exaggerated seated bow from across the table. “I’m so pleased. At any rate, we won’t be here for long. We will need to leave before dawn—I don’t want to give Morin the chance to catch up to us.”
“Then why take a room at all?”
“There are a few things we need to do that can’t be done on the road.”
The landlord reappeared, looking harried. “The maids are cleaning the room as we speak, my lord.”
“Excellent.”
We sat in silence—awkward on my part, seemingly comfortable on his—until the barmaid arrived with our food.
I found that I was starving and tucked in immediately, but Patrick pushed his food around his plate, making a face at the gristle on the ham slices.
I couldn’t help but smile at the expression on his face.
“Always ham, in places like these,” he groused.
“You don’t like it?”
“I prefer not to eat ham, if I can avoid it. You?”
“I haven’t had the luxury of being picky,” I said pointedly.
“I shall save these slices for Baldbeak,” said Patrick. “Have you finished? Our room should be ready by now.”
A little embarrassed at how quickly I had devoured my food, I pushed my plate away, and the landlord led us to the room, practically tripping up the stairs under the weight of his own fawning.
Patrick played the grand lord and barely spoke to him, merely tossing him a small purse when we reached the landing.
The landlord bowed and scraped his way back downstairs, leaving us alone.
Baldbeak immediately made himself comfortable on a chairback, and had nodded off within seconds.
The room was large and comfortable, lit by subtle glims and a well-laid fire, with an overstuffed armchair on the hearth, and an absolutely enormous feather bed. I blushed to look at it, but schooled my face into an unreadable mask. I wouldn’t let Patrick see any sign of discomfort.
Patrick went to the little mirror above the washbasin and fiddled with his hair.
“When you’ve quite finished preening,” I said. “You’re as bad as Baldbeak.”
“Never underestimate the importance of good grooming,” he said with the ghost of a smile. He looked around the room. “Well. This is modest. But comfortable enough.”
It seemed far more than comfortable to me, but I shrugged.
“A few orders of business, before we start our journey to Spire,” he said. He grabbed my hand, the suddenness of the movement startling me. “The ring.”
“What?” I tried to snatch back my hand, but he held it fast. I felt my cheeks heat. “Let go.”
He loosened his hold a little. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t.” I stared at the hideous piece of jewelry on my hand. I hated it with such ferocity that I imagined I could feel it scorching my skin. “It won’t come off. I’ve tried.”
“I imagine not,” he said. “It is bespelled.”
“Bespelled to stay on my finger, yes.”
“Not just that.”
I stared at him.
“I don’t want you to be alarmed,” he said gently.
“You can’t say that and then expect me not to be alarmed.” I felt cold all over. “What is it?”
“I wondered how he found you so quickly,” he said. “I think Ban Morin, and perhaps Sybil, too, are able to find you with this. Perhaps even watch you, to some degree.”
“Watch me?” I recoiled in horror. The Hair boiled around my shoulders, tangling in on itself. My throat seemed to close, and everything was swirling, snowstorm white.
“Netta. Netta.”
Patrick’s voice penetrated the roaring in my ears.
I panted and clapped my hands to my scalp, trying to calm the Hair.
He was still speaking in a low, reassuring tone, soothing nonsense, the sorts of things you would say to calm a spooked horse.
I felt the cool pressure of his fingers on my hand again and returned to myself slowly.
“Netta,” he was saying. “I can get it off. I can, I promise. Please. Be still.”
I collapsed into the chair by the fire. “Get it off. Get it off.”
“I will. Just try to be still.” He knelt before me and held my shoulders firmly. This close, I could see the golden specks in his changing eyes. I swallowed and tried to calm myself.
He took my hand gently and turned it, examining the ring from all angles.
“It’s …” My breath still came raggedly. “It has … teeth.”
He peered at its underside as best he could. “So it does. Fascinating.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you find this interesting.”
“Hold still.”
As he investigated the ring, my hand seemed to jerk in time with my heartbeat, my breath coming raggedly.
He seemed to realize how close I was to complete panic again and took both my hands in his, rubbing slow circles on the backs with his thumbs.
I couldn’t hear at first over the hissing in my ears, but as it subsided, I heard him whispering, “Easy … easy, now …” I laughed a little at that.
My hands were warm and damp within his cool, dry ones, and I could feel the faint press of his own rings against my skin.
“Will it hurt?” I ventured.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Reassuring.”