12
FINN
Finn returned to the barn with three wizened apples, the result of a morning spent foraging. His legs ached. His patience was worn thin from another night on damp straw. Three days of this, of watching the roads, of feeling hunger as a constant, dull ache.
Cecily was still asleep, wrapped in her shawl.
He watched the slow, even rise and fall of her breath.
Her hair had come loose again during the night, as it always did.
She hadn’t complained since the first night.
She simply ate what he found and kept walking.
Thinking of his father, the man she’d fled, brought a familiar, useless anger.
What a foolish girl, to run with nothing. And yet, what courage. She’s not cut out for this kind of life. She’s never gone this long without a proper bath, or eaten half-rotten food just to exist, or slept in cold, damp barns.
He watched her breathe, slow and even. No, she wasn’t born for this life, but neither was she cut out to marry the likes of his father. Just the thought of it made his jaw tighten and his breath quicken. She’d risked everything to escape him.
He cleared his throat. “Wake up,” he said, kicking lightly at her booted foot. “Hey, brat. Get up.”
She stirred, blinked, then pushed herself upright. “Finn. Where…?” She looked around at her surroundings. “Oh.”
He held out some bread and cheese. “Eat.”
She didn’t ask where it came from. She didn’t ask how hard it had been to find—or steal. She took it with a quiet thank-you and ate carefully, as if aware that every bite mattered.
Finn slung the empty sack over his shoulder when they finished. “We’re heading back to Graston.”
“To get the machine?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“And then we move on.”
She hesitated. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” was all he said.
∞∞∞
They reached the burned-out building in Graston before midday. What remained of it stood like a hollowed shell, with blackened beams, a collapsed roof, stone walls scorched and cracked. Finn slowed as they approached, every sense alert.
Someone had been there.
The door still hung crooked, one hinge torn loose. Inside, the machine sat where they’d dragged it days earlier, but someone had disturbed parts of the casing. Scratches marred the iron. A panel lay pried open.
Finn swore under his breath.
Just then, two men emerged from the back room, scavengers by their look. One moved toward the machine. The other stood at the door, watching the road. Cecily backed away toward the corner of the room.
Finn was already moving.
The man nearest the machine looked up just as Finn charged. There was no warning, just impact. Finn slammed into him shoulder-first, driving him back against the scorched wall. The clang of metal sounded as the man’s knife skidded from his grip and clattered across the floor.
The second man lunged from behind.
Finn twisted, barely escaping the blade. When he was free, he pulled out his own knife.
“Get out!” Finn shouted to Cecily. She didn’t move.
One man scrambled for the fallen blade. Finn kicked it aside and brought his knife up, slashing. The man hissed and staggered back, clutching his forearm.
Behind him, the other man rushed Cecily.
She cried out and threw up her arm as he grabbed for her shawl. The fabric tore. She stumbled, striking the stone wall hard enough to force her to the ground.
The sight of her on the ground did something to Finn he couldn’t pull back from. He drove forward, ramming the man away from her, his knife raised. He didn’t aim to kill. His blade cut shallow across the man’s side. Not a killing wound, but deep enough.
That did it. The first man bolted for the door with a yelp, not looking back. The second hesitated, eyes darting between Finn’s knife and Cecily crumpled against the wall. Then he turned and ran.
Finn stood there for a moment, chest heaving, knife still raised. When he was sure they were gone, he lowered it.
Cecily crouched on the floor against the wall, one hand pressed to her ribs. “Finn.”
He turned and headed toward her.
“You’re hurt,” he said, already reaching for her.
She shook her head, though her face had gone pale. “I’ll be alright.”
Then he checked the machine. One of the main coils had been pried from its housing, its wiring snapped and dangling.
They couldn’t stay. That much was clear.
∞∞∞
Finn found a carter on the edge of town willing to rent out a small shed for a few days, no questions asked.
He secured a horse and cart just long enough to haul the machine out under cover of dusk.
It cost him more coins than he wanted to spend and every ounce of strength he had, but together they got it loaded and covered as well as they could with debris.
“Cecily,” Finn said, assessing her. She looked a mess.
Her hair was loose and tangled, her dress, once a fine outdoor frock for a noble girl, was torn and caked with mud.
“I still have a few coins. Let’s buy some decent clothes, plain clothes, have a good meal and a bath at the inn down the road, and rent a room for the night. Then we’ll figure out what to do.”
Her shoulders dropped, and the corners of her mouth turned up into a small, tired smile.
“Yes, Finn. That sounds wonderful.”
∞∞∞
They stopped first at a shop to purchase new clothing, then found an inn.
Later, when they had both cleaned themselves up, Finn saw her properly for the first time.
She wore a simple wool dress, a blue ribbon in her hair, and new sturdy leather shoes.
He hadn’t expected her to look like that—like someone entirely different, or perhaps entirely herself.
The evening meal was already being served downstairs, a thick pottage served in a trencher, coarse bread with cheese, and a flagon of ale.
Finn watched Cecily eat so quickly and with such gusto that he laughed. “Hey, brat,” he said with a chuckle, “slow down. Let it reach your belly before you cram in more.”
She looked up, pottage clinging to her lower lip. “If you had the sense God gave a rabbit, you’d be eating quickly too. Who knows when our next meal will come?”
“Oh, there will be a next one,” he said dryly, leaning back to watch her.
“You think you know everything, don’t you?” she said, cocking her head. “Well, you don’t. I’ll admit you’ve been helpful so far. But who rescued you from the soldiers?”
Finn shook his head. “I liked you better when you were slopping food down your gullet instead of talking.”
∞∞∞
The space was small. One bed. Two basins of water. Clean straw strewn across the floor. When they lay down—fully clothed, backs turned—sleep refused to come.
He was too aware of her. Of the warmth at his side. Of the steady rise and fall of her breathing. He thought about turning toward her. And then the thought that followed stopped him.
She knew nothing about him. Nothing of his father, Lord Alard, the very man she would rather die than marry. It was a bitter irony.
He stared into the darkness, his jaw tight.
“Finn?” she murmured, half-asleep.
“Go to sleep, brat,” he mumbled.
She shifted closer anyway.
“Stop calling me brat, Sir Know-It-All.”
Finn closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, they would decide what came next. But tonight, they were clean and warm. There was a real bed beneath them instead of cold ground. They had eaten properly for the first time in days. The quiet between them felt different now. Not silence, but something closer to peace.
That was something. That was progress.
He listened to her breathing slow and deepen beside him, and finally, he slept.