14. Ash
Ash
Claire was only one rum in, and I already knew we were in trouble. Her face was flushed, her posture was loose, and the way she wobbled in her chair confirmed that she was, indeed, feeling the effects of the rum.
We’d spent the evening trading words, and against my better judgment, I’d found it surprisingly easy to listen to her.
Claire talked about a rooster from her farm named Lord Peckington the Third who was apparently pure evil.
She told me about her brother and sister, the family garden, and her favorite spot on earth—a willow tree where she’d sneak off on lazy afternoons with a good book and a plate of blueberry scones. But the easy part was over.
I stared longer than I should have. Her dimples deepened, impossible to ignore.
I watched the way her whole face shifted with every word, entirely unguarded.
Whenever she mentioned her family farm, those warm brown eyes of hers would absolutely light up, flashing with a fierce passion.
It was a strange thing to realize. Though our journey was short so far, all I’d heard about was how excited she was to leave it all behind—to pack up and marry Garrick.
But looking at her now, flushed and rambling about evil roosters and favorite trees, it was as clear as day that Claire loved that farm.
She loved her home. And no matter what future she thought she was chasing, a piece of her heart was firmly rooted in that dirt.
I finally dragged my gaze away, shaking my head as I tipped back the rest of my drink.
Get a grip.
I pushed my empty mug toward the bar, signaling for another, already turning back when—
“I’ll have one as well,” Claire chimed.
I fixed her with a skeptical look, eyebrows raised as I let my gaze drop to her swaying shoulders, then back up to her flushed face. “Pretty sure a second round puts you flat on the floor.”
Claire raised her chin, her eyes flashing with a challenging spark that had nothing to do with the rum. “I’ve survived a farm with a demonic rooster, Ash. I can handle a second drink. Keep them coming.”
“Oh, is that so? Because based on what you told me five minutes ago, your family only had that bird for two days before you left. I hardly think forty-eight hours makes you a veteran of the poultry wars.”
The playfulness drained from Claire’s face, replaced by a deadpan intensity that caught me off guard.
“Ash. Have you ever actually had any experience with evil poultry?”
I couldn’t help the twitch of amusement at the corner of my mouth. “I’m a mercenary, Princess. I’ve fought bloodthirsty sellswords, ruthless bandits, and creatures with actual fangs. I’m pretty sure I can handle a pissed-off chicken.”
Claire shook her head slowly “No, you don’t understand,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “Lord Peckington the Third is the epitome of evil. He senses fear, and he chose violence the moment he hatched.”
The bartender slid our fresh drinks between us, breaking the spell. I wrapped my fingers around the cold glass and stared straight ahead at the rows of bottles behind the bar.
I needed a second to clear my head. It wasn’t the ridiculous story that was the problem; it was the fact that I actually enjoyed the way her hands moved when she talked, the shifting life in her face, and the total lack of pretense in her voice.
For someone who dealt in shadows and calculated risks, Claire’s bright, unfiltered animation was a dangerous thing to get used to.
Beside me, Claire took a confident sip of her rum. “The taste is dreadful,” she admitted, wrinkling her nose, “but it makes me feel warm.”
“Yeah, rum does that. So does whiskey.”
“Which do you like more?”
“Whiskey.”
“Why? Is it sweeter?”
That earned her a real look. Up close, her eyes were brighter, glossed just enough to catch the firelight differently.
Her curls had begun to loosen around her face, a few strands slipping free beneath her bonnet, framing flushed skin and that soft, open expression she didn’t seem capable of hiding.
“No,” I said slowly. “Not sweeter.”
“Then why do you like it more?”
I leaned forward just enough to meet her halfway, resting my forearms on the table. “It burns.”
Her brows knit slightly. “Rum burns.”
“Not like whiskey does.” I held her gaze, letting the words settle. “Whiskey hits harder and stays with you longer.”
The way I said it made her still for a moment. Then she hummed softly, as if filing that away. “I’d like to try it sometime,” she murmured.
Of course you would.
Music swelled around us; the bard from earlier had been joined by another, the rhythm livelier, music meant to be felt rather than simply listened to. A few people had already begun to move near the hearth, laughter rising as boots scraped against wood.
Claire’s attention drifted. I saw the way her eyes followed the movement, drawn in like she couldn’t help herself.
And then she stood and smoothed her skirts, turning back toward me with that same bright, impulsive energy.
“Will you dance with me?” she asked.
I stared at her. “You’re kidding.”
She didn’t waver. Not even a little.
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. “I don’t dance.”
Her lips parted slightly, like she hadn’t expected that answer. Then she nodded once and turned. “Caspian!”
A few paces away, Caspian was in the middle of lining up a shot at the dartboard.
He froze, his arm cocked back, a look of pure, concentrated frustration on his face.
He’d been at it for twenty minutes, and I’d watched him narrowly miss the bullseye four damn times in a row, each thwack against the cork followed by a muttered curse.
“Yes?”
“Will you dance with me?”
Caspian hesitated. His gaze flicked to me. I lifted a brow, unimpressed, already reaching for my drink again. Don’t look at me.
He shrugged. “Why not?”
Claire beamed, and he took her hand and led her toward the open space near the hearth. I leaned back, drink in hand, telling myself it was just a drunk woman chasing a soft and fleeting comfort.
And yet my gaze followed her, anyway.
A few minutes into their dance, I found myself actually laughing. Claire Briarwood could not dance. Not like people did in taverns, where movement had a rhythm, a purpose, where steps followed a predictable, practiced pattern. She had none of that.
She stepped on Caspian’s boot once, twice, again, and each time he winced, trying to guide her into something resembling coordination. It didn’t work because she wasn’t trying to follow him. She was somewhere else entirely, lost in her own world.
Her skirt flared around her as she spun, the fabric catching the firelight in soft, sweeping arcs.
She laughed open, unrestrained, unbothered by the missteps or the attention it was starting to draw.
She bounced lightly on her feet, turning when there was no reason to turn, pulling Caspian with her instead of the other way around.
At one point, she nearly collided with another couple who simply laughed it off.
Around us, the tavern carried on. Most of the people here were farmers, workers, people who knew each other well enough not to think twice about a little chaos on the floor.
In the corner, a group of young men shouted over a game of cards, tankards slamming against the table, too wrapped up in their own noise to notice much else.
But others were watching because Claire drew the eye. It wasn’t just the way she moved. It was something in the way her eyes caught the light. I’d seen that same before, at her stall—like the charms she sold that caught the sun just right. Bright and impossible to ignore.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ribbon.
As I ran my thumb along the soft edge, its silver charm caught the firelight.
Even I couldn’t deny the craftsmanship. I rubbed the fabric between my fingers, feeling the slight give of the weave, the smoothness where her hands must have worked it over and over again. How long had it taken her?
I could picture Claire sitting in one of those carefully arranged chairs, head bent, fingers moving with quiet precision. No rush. No urgency. Just… patience.
Everything I didn’t have.
I dragged my gaze away from the thought before it could settle too deeply. The music shifted, the song winding down, the last notes trailing off as dancers slowed. Claire spun one final time, breathless, laughing—unaware of how flushed she’d become.
The ribbon vanished back into my pocket as if the fabric were white-hot. I reached for my drink in the same motion and brought it to my lips, my gaze already hunting for anything else to focus on.
Just another night. That’s all it was. That and nothing more.