Chapter 14
I half expect, half hope Astin will be waiting for me outside my room, but the corridor is dark and empty. I ignore the pang of disappointment in my belly as I enter alone, leaving the door unlocked just in case he turns up, and flop on to my bed.
At least my conversation with Damian wasn’t a total waste. I know where to search for the first item and I know I’ve got a better chance of smelling out a second compared to the other contestants.
I’m going to win this contest. I am.
As my eyes drift shut, I fantasise about the things I’ll buy once I have the money to save the inn. I could invest in silk bedding. Order a daily delivery of fresh roses. Pastries. I’d eat a lot of pastries. Crusted with golden sugar, that Astin would lick off my fingers before –
I jolt awake, still fully clothed. I’m not sure how long I slept for, but the pounding in my head suggests whatever the length of time, it wasn’t enough. Ugh. Rolling over, I try to remember what I’d been thinking about before I fell asleep. Something nice about food. Astin was involved.
Astin’s mouth was involved.
An involuntary noise escapes my throat at the memory.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that in any capacity, dream or not.
My chest rises faster. Stop it, one part of my brain tells the other.
It ignores me, which is rude. It shouldn’t be possible to disobey a direct order from your own body, and yet here we are, my mind swelling with images of Astin doing all kinds of things with an extraordinary variety of food – I didn’t realise cheese could be sexy, but suddenly all I can think about is plunging him in fondue.
A throat clears.
I bolt upright, and by the time my bleary eyes have focused on my dim surroundings, an oil lamp’s been lit to reveal Astin standing over me, returned to his usual attire (today’s shirt is maroon).
Oh, hexes. I hope I only made the one noise just now.
The last thing I need is for him to have heard me muttering his name in my sleep.
‘How long have you been there?’ My voice is croaky as I turn towards the nightstand, searching for a cup of water that, if I were home, would usually be within reach.
‘Too long.’ Something mercifully cold is pushed into my hand.
My chest swells, because trust Astin to know I’d wake dehydrated.
I take several gulps before setting the goblet down, conscious I have drool coating the side of my mouth.
Astin pays no attention to my frantic attempts to fix the situation, saying, ‘What happened to you last night? You had me running around the castle, trying to find you.’
‘Well, not everywhere, or you would’ve succeeded. I got lost, that’s all.’ I stretch, yawning. ‘I hope you weren’t up all night.’
‘No, I –’ He scratches his neck. ‘I came back here eventually, but you were already asleep. I didn’t want to wake you, so I . . .’
He’s refusing to look at me. I hope this has nothing to do with whatever dream-noises I might have made. ‘Please tell me you weren’t watching me sleep.’
‘Of course not,’ he says, a little too quickly. ‘I slept in the armchair for a bit, and then this –’ he throws a piece of paper on the bed – ‘got shoved beneath the door and woke me. Instructions from Damian.’
‘Oh.’ I scrabble for the paper, quickly scanning it to see it rehashes the information Damian gave me last night, including the fact that he suspects the statue inside Rerta’s park may hold one of the items we need.
Shit. Damian never specifically said that clue was just for me, but I’d certainly hoped it might be; a favour from one hexed person to another.
Now I’m imagining a stampede of contestants heading to the festival, and in the cold light of day I’m suddenly a lot less confident about my ability to find the items before they do.
‘I guess we’ll be visiting the festival then. ’
‘Don’t look so pleased about it.’ He glowers. ‘We’ll find what we need, and leave. No dawdling to coo over decorations.’
Honestly. You’d think I had a one-track mind.
He turns away for me to change into my regular pink clothes.
Thankfully, I just about manage to untie last night’s corset by myself, but I can’t help but feel wistful when I hang the dress in the wardrobe, like I’m saying goodbye to more than a nice outfit.
A quick glance over my shoulder tells me Astin is still adamantly facing the wall, back tense and arms folded, zero interest in taking a peek.
Dancing with him might have been another dream.
Just like the morning after we shared a bed, he’s returned to business as usual, like donning one of his shirts is akin to reapplying armour I’ll never penetrate.
Only when it comes off at night does he act like –
I yank the laces of my boots so hard I’m afraid they’ll snap.
It doesn’t matter what he acted like. I don’t know what I expected from him. There isn’t a discussion to be had. We were at a party, and we danced to fit in, to keep me out of trouble, as he said.
I ignore the fact I can feel the imprint of his hands on my waist as we leave the ruins.
Multiple sets of footprints on the path ahead tell me we’re behind once again, but I remain optimistic. They might reach Rerta before we do, but they won’t find the items first. I’ll make sure of it.
A few days. That’s all I’ll have to wait. I am choosing to believe the cure will be big enough for two, and then I’ll fix myself, hand the rest to Damian, and he’ll . . .
He’ll kill a person. A Souleater.
Oh, hexes.
A Souleater who’s in Rerta. I was so excited about the love festival, I hadn’t given them a moment’s thought. I go clammy. What if we bump into them, and they attack again? What if Astin realises who they are, and gets himself killed in the name of revenge?
I watch him out the corner of my eye. If he knew they’re close by . . .
He won’t forgive me for keeping it from him.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘What?’
‘You’re looking at me.’
‘Am I not allowed to look at you?’ The words barely leave my mouth before I stumble over a branch.
Astin swears, catching my arm before I tumble to the ground. ‘Maybe you should focus on walking.’
‘Maybe you should focus on . . . on . . .’
He raises a brow when it becomes apparent I have no comeback to hand and, worse, I’m still looking at him.
Wind blows his hair from his face, ruffling his usually unruffled appearance, while his blue eyes glimmer with an unfamiliar, carefree amusement.
I guess his clothes aren’t a total shield from the strange version of Astin that’s surfaced over the past two nights.
I tear my gaze away, hating keeping secrets from him, and stomp ahead.
We spend the rest of the journey in silence, travelling through the woods before arriving at a set of narrow stairs carved into rock, leading into the valley housing the city of Rerta below.
Behind the mass of buildings, coloured flags and the tiny dots of moving people, snow-capped mountains rise in the distance.
The Souleater settlement is somewhere within them.
It’s late afternoon by the time we’ve descended the stairs and entered the city at last. This time of year, the days draw in early, and the sky above is already darkening, thick clouds forming over our heads as the wind picks up.
Although the outskirts are quiet, I find myself seeking Souleaters down every alley, for a figure cloaked in a white veil, fingers reaching out to grab me like they did two years ago.
As we move deeper into the city, there’s an increase to the number of wardens patrolling the streets.
They should be reassuring, but all they do is remind me protection might be necessary, and the wardens will likely be as useless a deterrent as the pink banners strung overhead.
I keep my eyes peeled for areas that might have been used to stash a magical artefact, running my fingers along the brickwork of every building, searching for loose stones housing concealed compartments, and peering into bushes as though I expect to find a prettily wrapped package inside.
Panic flutters in my chest the further we walk and see nothing but the usual signs of the Laevothe festival: heart charms, Clarabelle dolls and flags of various sizes for sale on every street corner.
Nearly everybody carries a flag, marching down the streets with poles in hand, brandishing the love hearts speckled over the fabric like a weapon.
I’m covered in a cold sweat by the time we’ve reached the centre.
Every street we turn down is crammed with more and more people, and their emotions are so vibrant.
There’s so many smells to experience, so many I want to taste.
My hands twitch with the urge to grab someone.
I’ve never visited a city this large before, and it’s too much, too overwhelming, I can’t stand it –
I stop by a wall, panting, my fingers digging into the stone at my back to prevent them digging into things they shouldn’t. Posters flap either side of my head. I bat one away, only to notice the words along the top: MISSING. It’s the same picture that woman showed us in the Duck in the Dark.
‘Daisy?’ Astin touches my shoulder and I nearly buck at the contact. His palm is overly warm, searing through my blouse and branding skin that’s already sweltering. ‘What’s wrong?’
I’m racking up quite the list of answers to that question, but a blast of lemon-sharp anxiety from a woman rushing past has my head spinning.
‘I don’t like crowds,’ I force out. ‘I’m fine. Give me a minute.’
I can do this. It’s not like I’ve never been in a crowd before.
The streets of Shiverholde may not teem with this many people, but there are still people.
I’m usually better than this. But there’s something about their excitement that’s set me on edge, my nerves buzzing, knowing the festival is close by.
It’s everything I’ve ever wanted to see, and now I’m unsure if I can handle it.