20. Ash
Ash
Claire barely spoke the next day. She didn’t even give a complaint, not a sigh about the road, not even a dramatic lament about the state of her boots. Nothing. Which was more unsettling than all her usual noise combined.
I watched her more than I wanted to admit. She kept her gaze forward, her posture too straight, chin tipped up like she was holding it in place by sheer will alone. Even when the road turned rough and uneven, she didn’t ask for help. Strange.
Eversprig came into view like a storybook town, its low cottages tucked into the curve of the hills, their roofs dusted in creeping ivy and their windows spilling over with flowers.
Color lingered everywhere —in the hedgerows, along the fences, everywhere the eye could see.
It actually hurt my eyes to squint so much at all the bright colors.
The air shifted, too. It was sweeter, warmer, and thick with the scent of honey and crushed herbs. My horse slowed without being asked. Even the animals seemed to feel the shift. I glanced at Claire again in the carriage, still sitting rigidly.
As soon as we stopped in front of the tavern, The Honeyed Hearth, Claire swung out of the carriage before Caspian could even move to help her, hitting the ground with a determined thud. She gave no hesitation, offered no glance back.
She walked straight inside.
I barely had time to hand the reins off to the stable boy before the door swung shut behind her.
Caspian met my eye over the horses. “Any idea what happened?”
I shook my head, though my gaze lingered on the tavern door. “No clue. But she’s clearly upset.”
“Do you think we went too far with the joke?”
“Perhaps.”
I turned it over in my head as I adjusted my gloves, thinking back to the River of Soles, the way we’d spun the tale so it was just a bit darker than necessary.
Maybe that had unsettled her. But no… she hadn’t seemed shaken after.
Not really. The shift had come later this morning when we had found her gone from camp and off wandering alone like she had any business doing that out here.
All for—
I exhaled sharply through my nose.
Flowers.
“She wandered off alone,” I muttered, more to myself than to Caspian. “That’s when this attitude of hers started.”
He gave a small, knowing hum, but said nothing as we made our way toward the entrance. I pushed the door open and immediately caught the edge of Claire’s frustrated voice.
“What do you mean you only have two rooms?”
The Honeyed Hearth was warm and crowded with the low hum of voices and the smell of roasted meat.
Claire stood at the counter like she was about to declare war.
A curly strand of her hair had slipped free, falling across her cheek, but she made no move to fix it.
Her shoulders were drawn high, tension lingering in the line of her back.
Across from her, the innkeeper—a wiry, sharp-eyed woman with more lines than patience—studied a piece of parchment.
“I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” the woman said, not sounding sorry at all, “but you must understand. We are hosting our annual Goat Parade.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “There’s even a ‘Most Majestic Goat’ competition. I hear the judges are quite harsh.”
“You must find us a room,” Claire pressed, her voice tightening. “Please. As you can see, there are three of us.”
“It cannot be done, Miss. I’m sorry.”
“Fine.” Claire spun on her heel so quickly her skirts flared. “We shall find lodgings elsewhere.”
The innkeeper didn’t even flinch. “There’s only one other inn in town,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And they’re right by the competition site. They’ll likely be entirely booked.”
I crossed my arms, watching Claire’s rigid posture, the way she held her shoulders just a little too tight. Still upset. Still holding onto her frustration. And now we had two rooms. For three people.
I dragged a hand down my face. This was going to be a long night.
The innkeeper’s gaze slid from Claire to me. One wiry brow arched, and she tilted her head. “Perhaps, you two women can share a room, and the man can have the other?”
I didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered on us a second longer than necessary.
“How many beds are in each room?” Claire asked, her voice tight in a way I was beginning to recognize.
“There’s only one.”
“No.” Claire turned like she meant to walk straight out of the inn on principle alone.
I moved before she could take more than a step. My hand closed around her shoulder—firm, steady, leaving no room for argument—and she stilled beneath my grip. I didn’t look at her. Didn’t give her the chance to turn this into a bigger issue than it needed to be.
Instead, I kept my eyes on the innkeeper, meeting that knowing look head-on. “Two rooms will be fine.”
Beside me, Claire exhaled like the entire world had personally inconvenienced her. I caught the slightest movement in my peripheral, a subtle drop of her shoulders, the displeasure practically radiating off her.
“Honestly, I’d rather sleep in the carriage outside than share a room with you,” she muttered.
I calmly raised a brow, my voice steady and unimpressed. “Fine by me. I can just share a room with Caspian, then.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that, travelers,” the innkeeper interrupted. “One of our deceased maids haunts the upstairs. She’s a bit... particular. Loathes it when a man and a woman share a room together if they aren’t married.”
“I’m not even attracted to men,” I deadpanned, “so it wouldn’t exactly be a scandal.”
“The ghost doesn’t care for your preferences, miss.
She’s very old-fashioned and, frankly, she’s got a violent streak.
She’s been known to shatter washbasins and throw heavy chairs across the floor if she thinks there’s any impropriety.
Unless you want a pillow or two flying at your head in the middle of the night, you’ll take separate quarters.
It’s a shame, really. She was the best maid we ever had.
She taught us all how to fold the beds, you know.
Crisp, perfect corners. But, well... now she mostly just throws things. ”
I released Claire’s shoulder, though I was aware of the lingering imprint left where my hand had been.
There was no arguing this. No alternative.
No amount of stubbornness was going to conjure another room out of thin air.
And I would rather not duel it out with an angry ghost. I had enough problems without a poltergeist weaponizing pillows against me.
We were staying. And we were sharing.
Whether we wanted to, or not.
That night, I unbuckled my sword belt, the leather creaking in the quiet room, and set it carefully on the lone wooden chair near the hearth.
Claire was busy unlacing her boots with an aggression that felt entirely personal.
She didn’t look at me. She hadn’t looked at me since we left the innkeeper downstairs.
Every movement she made was rigid, jerky, and practically radiating a silent, burning fury.
“Look,” I started, tossing my tunic onto the chair. “The innkeeper said—”
Claire pulled her left boot off with a violent jerk and slammed it onto the floorboards. She just reached for the right one without so much as an acknowledgment I had spoken.
I let a slow breath out through my nose. Right. Silent treatment it was.
Gathering a small basin of water and a cloth, I stepped into the adjacent washroom to scrub the grime of the road from my face. I took my time, deliberately letting the cool water soothe the irritation prickling beneath my skin.
Claire was being irrational. She was being entirely, utterly crazy.
We had ventured on the road for a week and a half, crossed a river that divided half a continent, and survived the Wilds, yet a simple room shortage was apparently where she drew the line?
No, she had been upset sometime before that.
Over something I couldn’t even name.
By the time I dried my face and walked back into the room, I discovered that Claire had used my brief absence to launch a tactical strike.
She had already staked her claim. Not just on a side of the mattress—no, she had positioned herself directly in the dead center of the bed.
It was a decently sized bed, large enough for two people to sleep comfortably, but with her starfished right in the middle, it was going to be extremely cozy.
She was tucked beneath the heavy quilts staring fixedly at the ceiling, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
A stubborn warmth flooded my chest. Two could play at this game. If she thought her icy glare and ridiculous positioning were going to banish me to the floor, she had entirely misjudged who she was dealing with.
I was not a woman who got intimidated by a mattress hog.
Without saying a word, I walked over, lifted the edge of the heavy quilt, and climbed in.
Claire didn’t move an inch. I had to awkwardly wedge myself into the remaining sliver of space on the mattress, my shoulder pressing firmly against hers.
I rolled onto my side, facing away from her, determined to get comfortable out of sheer spite.
It was ridiculous, it was cramped, but I was on the bed.
I closed my eyes, letting out a satisfied sigh. Victory.
Then, Claire shifted, but it wasn’t a gentle roll; it was a sudden, violent heave of her hip and shoulder. Her elbow caught me square in the ribs, and with a sharp shove, she “accidentally” knocked me clean off the edge of the bed.
I hit the floorboards with a dull, heavy thud, the breath leaving my lungs. For a second, I just lay there in the dark staring at the underside of the nightstand, my blood absolutely boiling.
I scrambled to my feet and yanked the quilt down to expose her face. “I am not sleeping on the floor!”
Claire didn’t even flinch. She just turned her head, glowering at me with eyes like flint.
“It was an accident. The bed is very small.”