Chapter Forty-Eight. The Departure and a Summoning.
Forty-Eight
The Departure and a Summoning.
When next I wake, I am alone and it’s daylight.
Though the rain still falls, a lonesome gray dawn seeps into the room through the cracks in the window shutters, and the sallow illumination brings out the contours of the empty window seat, the table where the lantern was at first, and the bed I lie upon.
Pushing the hair out of my face, I look down at myself. Covers have been pulled up over me, and beneath them, my body is rewrapped in the sheet.
My eyes return to the window seat—but as if Merc could be there and I’ve missed him? Gone too are his backpack, and his weapons.
Fates, he’s left me.
Putting my hands to my face, I try to piece together the night before. I don’t get far and give up fast—and as I lower my arms, I look up at the ceiling and wonder if what he did to me in the darkness wasn’t all a dream.
A beautiful, impossible dream.
Whether real or not, Merc left as the stranger he was, anonymously and in silence.
His departure makes me think of when he first came through the door at the Gauntlet.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared—just like they did last night downstairs.
He’s the kind of man you notice, and I can’t help but wonder who’s watching him walk into what room now.
Where is he going, especially in all this rain?
Not here. That’s all I know, and probably all I’ll ever know.
As a piercing pain wracks my whole body, I have only myself to blame. I knew all along this was coming, and I made it worse last night. Still, I’d been hoping that if it was raining I’d have more time with him. But as if any storm is strong enough to stop him?
Though the room is not completely dark, I hunger for illumination to make me feel less alone. Reaching for the lantern as it hangs on the hook, I fumble around to find the crank—
The strangest thing happens.
The tiny glow on the wick flares to life before I get to the lever to raise the oil-soaked weave. And then when I go to take my hand away? The flame re-lowers itself.
Frowning, I try again, moving my fingertips forward—and the same thing occurs. The flame rises toward them as they get close to the clouded glass of the lamp, and when I move my hand around, the glow follows, the little teardrop-shaped flare tilting as if it’s reaching for—
A creak of floorboards jerks my head to the water closet.
As my heart pounds, I grab for my waist out of habit, for the little knife used to be holstered there—
Merc steps out. His hair’s wet, but he’s fully clothed and armored, with weapons on—and he’s as compelling and masculine as ever. Even more so to me now.
He stops and looks down at himself. “What?”
Treacherous relief threatens to flatten me, even as I’m not on my feet. And then I realize he’s asked me something. “I … ah, I’m sorry?”
“What are you looking at? Do I have something untucked?”
The absurdity of the inquiry stalls me—like he’s worried his britches are on backwards? And as he waits for a response, his brows rise, and his head tilts to one side.
“Have you gone daft in the night, then?”
“Yes, I have,” I whisper to myself. Then more loudly, I say, “Nothing untucked, no. I’m just surprised you’re still here.”
“Where else would I be in this storm.” He strides for the door. “In any event, I’ll be back in a couple of hours. You rest.”
“I’m not tired—”
“Then you’ll stay here because you’re not stupid and you know it’s the safe thing to do.” With a quick twist of his torso, he glances back at me. “Did you really think I’d left you? Without saying goodbye.”
I clear my throat. “Oh, no. Not at all—”
“I won’t leave without telling you.” He taps the heavy metal bolting mechanism. “How would you be able to lock yourself in?”
As if that’s the only consideration. “Well … thank you.”
Our eyes meet, and I find myself holding my breath for some sort of …
anything from him. No, that’s a lie. I want something specific, some proclamation that what happened between us is the sort of rare thing he’ll hold in his mind, too.
When he says nothing, I think now would be a good time to tip his proverbial hand by dropping his gaze down my body or giving me that knowing half smile of his. Or saying … something, anything—
Merc pulls back the latch and taps it again. “I don’t leave till I hear this get thrown.”
He’s out in the blink of an eye, closing the door behind him.
Only the thought of him waiting on the far side gets me to move, and I shift my legs to the floor—
The door opens again, and he brings in a tray of food. “She brought this for you. From the kitchen—”
“The maid who sings?” I make sure the sheeting stays wrapped around me. “Is she out there?”
“No, she hurried off.” Merc puts the food on the table. “But she told me to tell you she tested this all. It’s safe.”
The same bread, carefully torn into bite-size pieces, the same refreshing drink—but there are two tankards and enough of everything for both him and me.
“There’s some for you here,” I point out.
“I’m not hungry. And anyway, I’m more of a meat eater.” His eyes skate around the room, and then linger at the ceiling as if he’s trying to measure the rainfall by what it sounds like on the roof. Finally, he nods at the latch. “Remember.”
“How could I forget,” I mutter as the door closes once more.
Standing there, I wait for another delivery from him. A second tray of food and drink. A stolen pony.
Nothing.
I go over to the latch, and shove it back into place. “Happy now?”
He doesn’t reply to me, but I hear his heavy boots walking away.
Pent up, I do some striding of my own, taking a little pass around the room.
I end up back in front of the tray, and I picture the young maid scurrying up here with the nourishment, perhaps because she waited until that cook either passed out or went after someone else.
I eat not because I’m hungry, but because of the risks she took to bring me the food.
At least the bread still tastes good, and the drink sizzles through me, waking me up properly.
The latter carries a complication as a side effect.
I already sense the walls closing in on me, and the extra energy makes me feel even more trapped.
But then I think of the man in the top hat, and all the others like him or worse.
As much as I want to rail against Merc and his stupid bolt rule, he’s right, this is a dangerous place—
Knock. Knock.
“Now what.” I glare at the door. “Have you forgot something—”
“Sorrel?” A male voice—not Merc’s—brings me to instant attention. “Sorrel, are you—”
Without thinking, I undo the bolt and yank the panels open.
Ronl, the new father, is on the other side, standing in the corridor in his brown felt suiting, his eyes behind his glasses shifting over his shoulder, as if he’s anxious he was followed.
When he refocuses on me, he flushes and looks at the gray floorboards.
Oh, he’s not anxious about what’s in his wake. Of course he doesn’t want to be caught anywhere near me.
The warmth and hospitality he offered as we were leaving was him overcome with emotion. But he’s returned to his senses now—as they all do.
I pull the sheeting up higher. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Lena,” he says urgently. “She needs you.”