Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Soft grey light filters through the canopy as mist curls around the branches. The scent of damp bark and loam seeps through the crack in Marian’s open window, coaxing her upright.
She dresses quickly, fingers fumbling over the laces of her vest. She drags a damp cloth over her face and teeth, chewing on two mint leaves until the bitterness chases away the sour taste on her tongue.
Her boots slip on with ease; her jaw is set with resolve as she loops her fox pin to fasten half her curls to her head.
A full stomach and a good night’s rest have renewed her sense of purpose – she doesn’t plan on playing the grateful captive today.
If there’s a way out of Sherwood, a way back to Hallomere Manor and a way to undo a bargain she never wanted, she’ll find it.
Marian doesn’t believe her father will welcome her back with open arms after running into the forest where no ‘well-bred daughter’ should ever go.
But if she brings back what she’s learned about Elswyth – their customs and, most importantly, details about their leader – perhaps it’ll be enough to buy her way out of the Sheriff’s noose.
She moves to the door and pulls it open, nearly crashing into Lox in the process.
He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he just stands there, bow and quiver at his back and looking maddeningly unbothered, as if he’d known exactly when she’d rise.
‘Morning,’ is all he offers before stepping inside. His eyes sweep over her in one slow pass. His gaze doesn’t linger anywhere indecent, but it makes her palms sweat all the same.
‘It appears even one meal can make a difference.’ Lox’s voice carries the certainty of observation rather than courtesy. ‘The colour’s back in your cheeks and your eyes are no longer glassy.’
‘I didn’t ask for your assessment.’ Marian bristles, forcing herself to meet his gaze head on.
There’s an amusement in his expression that brightens the green of his irises. He reaches into the satchel at his side, pulls out a folded bundle, and holds it out to her.
Marian baulks. ‘What’s this?’
‘What you’re wearing isn’t suitable for where I’m taking you. That frock will get caught on every bramble and root between here and the ridge,’ he replies. ‘I thought these might help.’
She doesn’t move. ‘You . . . You brought me a present?’
His mouth curves. ‘I am capable of thoughtfulness on occasion.’
Tentatively, she prises the gift from his grip and unfolds it.
Trousers. Sturdy and slim-cut. Marian turns the fabric over in her hands.
But there’s nothing. Just thoughtful tailoring and rich forest-dyed weave.
They’re heavier than the clothes she’s worn all her life, but it’s clear they’re meant for running, climbing, surviving.
Her eyes flick to Lox’s face, hunting for the catch.
His mouth twitches. ‘If I wanted to get you out of your clothes, I wouldn’t start by giving you more.’
Heat flares across her cheeks so fast, she nearly drops the trousers. She turns sharply, half to hide the flush, half to put anything between her and the wicked gleam in his eyes.
Marian huffs and hurries toward the screen in the corner, clutching the trousers like a shield. Her pulse thuds in her ears as she ducks behind the wooden divider.
The fabric is cool against her thighs as she steps in. They hug her hips and fall neatly to her ankles.
She’s never worn anything like them. The absence of her usual heavy, layered skirts is disarming; the fabric glides over her skin, hugging the swell of her thighs and hips in a way that no court dress ever dared.
The air moves differently over her legs; her stance feels looser, her body less bound.
She shifts once, twice, testing the give of the seams. Her hands smooth over the fabric until they snag on mirrored slits at both her hips.
Saints save her, they have pockets.
Real ones. Deep enough for her whole hand.
Two in the front, one in the side seam, and another hidden one stitched along the thigh.
Her fingers sink into them with a breathless kind of glee, and she twists from side to side, marvelling at how deep they go, how useful they are.
A small, startled laugh slips out of her.
She bites it back, schooling her features before she steps out.
Lox waits near the door, arms folded, one shoulder leaning against the frame.
But the minute she’s in front of him, his spine stacks like a soldier called to attention.
His gaze tracks from her boots up the line of her legs, over the curve of her hips.
He doesn’t leer. He assesses, and somehow that burns hotter under her skin than open hunger would.
Marian resists the urge to fidget.
‘Thank you. I’ve never owned a pair of trousers before.’
‘And you humans call us savages,’ he huffs, biceps flexing beneath his rolled linen sleeves.
The moment stretches, thick with a tension neither of them acknowledges.
‘We should go. The ridge isn’t far by fae standards, but I worry that with only one decent meal in your belly you may collapse halfway there. ’
Marian stiffens. ‘I am not fragile.’
‘No, but you are mortal.’ Lox’s mouth tilts, the faintest provocation. ‘Humans burn bright, but briefly.’
‘I won’t gutter out so easily.’
His smile curves, dangerous in its restraint. ‘We shall see.’
* * *
Marian stumbles more often than not and Sherwood seems to relish testing her resolve.
Roots rise like knuckles through the loam.
Brambles flirt with her sleeves and tug free the curls she’d failed to tame.
Marian grits her teeth and presses forward a few paces behind Lox, careful not to match his stride exactly, unwilling to admit she’s following his lead.
She will not give either the trees or their lord the satisfaction of seeing her flounder.
Not once do his steps falter. The forest parts for him as though eager to smooth his way: a branch lifts a breath, a root settles deeper, the mist thickens to a veil before him and draws closed again after he’s passed.
They take a deer path that climbs in tight switchbacks.
Lox moves just ahead, the line of his shoulders unhurried, the antlers making a moving lattice out of the pale light.
When he slows, it’s not from strain but to let her catch her breath; she spurns his gift and lengthens her step to close the gap between them, lungs burning.
He’s the first to break the quiet. ‘We’ll rest here a moment.’
Embarrassment flushes up her neck. She misses a step and recovers, pretending it was the slope. ‘Tired already?’ she huffs.
Lox’s mouth tilts. ‘Not remotely.’ He gestures to a fallen trunk slick with moss. ‘But the sound of your mortal lungs wheezing is scaring off every critter within a thousand leagues.’
‘That’s hardly my fault,’ she seethes, leaning her quivering thighs against the trunk despite herself. ‘This place is challenging to navigate.’
‘Sherwood is not your enemy.’ Lox stands a pace away, hands loose at his sides.
‘The more you fight it, the more it will make you prove yourself. It listens. It learns. If you thrash, it will give you something to thrash against.’ His gaze flicks back to her, green catching in the filtered light.
‘You are in its body and you charge through it like it owes you passage. Walk like a guest, mind where you put your weight, and try not to look at every root as a vice.’
‘That’s easy for you to say; the roots seem to adore you,’ she mutters, rubbing the ache in her calf.
‘They know me. And I know them. I was weaned under these leaves.’ He steps beside her, not quite touching, and points at the path ahead of them.
‘Weight on the outside of your foot when the ground is soft. Heel to toe on rock. When the fern fronds tilt, that means the soil beneath is hollowed by roots. Avoid it. If the ivy clings to a trunk on one side, wind comes from the other. Read Sherwood the way you would before pressing charcoal to paper.’
The muscle in her jaw spasms at being taught like a child, yet his nearness unsettles her more.
What would her mother think of their closeness?
The thought rises unbidden. Isadora Hallomere would scarcely recognize the woman Marian’s become.
Isa, who salted thresholds and strung iron nails over the hearth to ward against fae; she would condemn her daughter for walking willingly beside one, especially while being betrothed to another – even one as detestable as the Sheriff.
Marian can almost hear her voice, warning that the woods take what they love, that they’d swallow her whole until only carrion remained.
And yet here she stands. Fae food still in her belly and deep within the heart of Sherwood, determined not to let it, or her captor, get the best of her.
She steps past him into the seam of the path. ‘Outside edge on soft ground,’ she murmurs to herself. ‘Heel to toe on rock. Avoid the ferns. Understood.’
Her feet push ahead. The path narrows to a thread between thorn and nettle, the ground slick where mist has beaded.
She does as he said, if only to prove she can, and, to her irritation, it works.
The ground receives her instead of shrugging her off.
The brambles snag less when she anticipates their reach.
Even the mist seems to loosen, parting in ribbons where they brush against her flesh.
All around them, Sherwood awakens. Birds loosen into tentative song, then lively chatter.
A beetle trundles over a coffin of bark and disappears beneath a curtain of lichen.
Marian lets the rhythm of noticing steady her.
She reads the tilt of fronds, the lay of leaves, the way damp earth darkens where her step would sink deepest. Each small success is both balm and burr.
Lox falls in step behind her without comment, and when the path pitches, his presence tightens the air between her shoulder blades.