Chapter 4 #2
Allen sets his lute down, leaning it against the doorframe, and raises his hands, palms open.
‘You were half-dead when we found you. The snare tore deep, cleaved your ankle apart so badly that blood started pooling beneath your flesh. It was swollen beyond measure by the time we arrived in Elswyth. It was quite a gruesome thing. Lost half my lunch when I saw it—’
‘You used magic,’ Marian spits, pressing herself into the corner where the wall meets the low bed frame.
The herbs overhead sway faintly with her movement, their perfume suddenly cloying.
‘It’s inside me now, changing me into saints know what .
. .’ Her chest heaves, every inhale snagging.
She runs her hands down her arms, over her thighs, searching beneath her skin.
Her fingers tremble as they climb to her ears, tracing their rounded edges.
Still blunt. Still human. Yet she checks again, tugging at the lobes, frantic that some sharpness may be sprouting.
Her gaze drops to her hands. They shake against the morning light, and for a dizzy moment she swears they are not her own.
The nails, the lines in her palms – even the way the knuckles flex – feel strange.
She curls them into fists, then spreads her fingers wide, but the sensation remains, crawling over her bones.
Allen’s expression tightens, guilt flickering across it. He takes a step closer but stops when she flinches. ‘I brought you straight here to our healing bough. They mended what was broken. That is all. Nothing more, nothing less. You’re still you.’
Marian shakes her head violently, fingers digging into her scalp as though she could root out whatever foreign thing might already be twining inside her.
‘No,’ she chokes, dragging her nails down her neck until red lines welt. ‘You poisoned me. You put your fae filth inside me. I can feel it-it-it . . . changing me.’
Allen takes one cautious step closer, his hands still raised in surrender.
He drops to a crouch, still a careful distance away, lowering himself to her level as though she is a skittish animal.
His voice softens, threaded with an earnestness that unsettles her more than any blade.
‘I don’t know what stories they fed you, girl.
But if you’re feeling strange, perhaps it’s because you were hanging upside down from a tree with blood pooling in your skull, and you’ve just woken up after nearly dying? ’
Marian’s stomach twists. The memory of fabric clinging wet to her skin flares hot, her shame sharpening into rage.
‘You had no right,’ she whispers. Her nails dig crescents into her palms, grounding her against the madness prickling up her throat.
She wraps her arms around herself, pressing her knees close.
The quilt pools at her feet, forgotten. She feels the pulse in her wrists, rapid, wild, as if her own body is no longer under her command.
He sighs and leans back on his heels, watching her carefully. His hands drop, not in defeat but in a gesture that says he will not force closeness.
‘I won’t apologize for saving you.’
The certainty in his tone cuts through the haze, sharp as cold water.
Marian lifts her head despite herself, her gaze locking on his.
His eyes are green, shot through with molten flecks, like leaves catching fire in sunlight.
There is no mockery there, no malice. Only a steady weight she cannot read, and it frightens her more than a blade.
He presses a hand over his heart. ‘On the breath of the trees that keep me alive, I swear I have not changed you.’ His voice steadies into something fierce, each word landing like stone on stone. ‘If I’m lying, may the forest swallow me whole and spit back my bones.’
Marian’s throat works. She wants to call him a liar, wants to cling to the fear, because it is easier than the strange warmth his vow plants in her chest. But her body betrays her.
Her heartbeat slows enough that the trembling in her hands begins to ease.
His words settle somewhere deep, against her will.
And yet, fear still twists between her ribs. She says a silent prayer that her mother’s tonic protected her.
Because even if she believes him, she is still in their den, alone.
A chill ripples up her spine, flesh prickling.
Allen’s face softens as if he can sense it.
He pushes up to stand and disappears, only to come back a moment later with a bundle of fabric in his arms. He places it gently on the edge of the bed – a clean forest-green skirt, a loose cream tunic, with a russet vest – and steps back.
‘Thought you might prefer these over . . . Well.’ His gaze dips to her practically bare form, not lasciviously but more in theatrical dismay. ‘The damsel look doesn’t quite suit you.’
Heat crawls up Marian’s throat at the reminder of how little she’s wearing. She snatches up the quilt, clutching it tight across her chest.
Allen notices, and a crooked grin tugs at his mouth. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not my type.’ His tone is light and teasing, but there’s a thread of sincerity woven within it. ‘Trust me,’ he adds with a lilt. ‘You’ve the wrong set of . . . equipment.’
For the first time since she woke, Marian blinks at him, caught between mortification and a jolt of startled laughter that doesn’t quite leave her lips. Her chest aches from holding it back, as though any crack in her armour might undo her entirely.
Allen’s grin softens. He steps away, turning his back in exaggerated courtesy, and begins fussing with the lute strap at his shoulder, as though the strings suddenly demand his attention.
Marian unfurls the offered clothes. The fabric smells faintly of smoke and pine as she tugs the skirt up and over her hips.
The wool is coarse but warm, falling to brush her ankles.
The tunic comes next, then the vest, its russet laces snug without being constrictive.
Each layer grounds her in something that feels less like a funeral shroud and more like a shield.
‘You can turn around now,’ she calls out.
Allen pivots lightly, as though he’s been waiting for the cue. His eyes flick over her, quick and professional. ‘Much better.’
Then, with a flourish far too grand for the small room, he bows low, one hand sweeping across his chest. ‘I’m Allen, by the way. Allen-a-Dale, if you want to be formal about it. Resident minstrel, mender of spirits, occasional errand boy.’
Marian swallows, fingers tugging at the hem of her vest. For a moment she hesitates. To give her name feels like giving away more than she can afford. Finally, she answers simply.
‘Mare.’
Even the shortening of her name leaves her tongue dry.
Allen straightens, his grin flashing like sunlight through leaves. ‘Well then, Mare. As much as I’d like to let you rest a little longer, I’ve been instructed to bring you to see the Council of Elders.’
Her palms dampen, stomach twisting as her body stiffens, readying itself for whatever cage comes next.
‘Don’t worry,’ Allen murmurs, slinging the lute more firmly across his chest. ‘They bite less than the stories claim. Most of the time.’