Chapter 24 #3
For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The torchlight wavers over Tilda’s face, gilding the tear-tracks there. Marian studies her the way she used to as a child. There’s something harder in her handmaiden now, something forged by the same flames that seem to have burned them both.
‘When I heard you’d been taken by those barbarians,’ Tilda says softly, ‘I thought I’d be finding what was left of you in a ditch.
Or worse, hanging from one of their trees.
But look at you . . .’ Her eyes sweep over Marian, taking in the dirt, the bruises, the iron cuffs.
‘You look different. Thinner, yes, but stronger. More yourself.’
Marian exhales a shaky breath. ‘I’m not sure what that means.’
‘It means,’ Tilda murmurs, voice wavering, ‘you look like the girl you were before your father taught you to flinch. There’s fire in you again.
’ She swallows, as if the sight of it frightens her.
‘Though, saints forgive me, I don’t know how you survived.
I was certain the fae would kill you. Or worse. ’
Marian’s lips curve. ‘They’re not what we were told.’
Tilda’s brow furrows, scepticism knitting her face. ‘The lot of them are creatures without mercy or soul. They—’
‘Are no different than us,’ Marian finishes.
‘They bleed. They grieve. They love. The only difference is that God saw fit to give them magic.’ She shakes her head, exhaustion bleeding into something close to remorse.
‘All they want is to live in peace. To keep their forest safe from men like my father and the Sheriff, who want to carve it hollow.’
Tilda crosses herself before she can stop the motion. She glances over at Allen’s cell. ‘You sound as though you pity them.’
Marian gives a hoarse laugh. ‘I’ve seen monsters’ cruelty first-hand, and it wasn’t theirs.
It was his.’ She tilts her chin toward the ceiling, where the echo of the Sheriff’s boots had faded hours ago.
‘The fae don’t make sport of torment. They don’t string people up for defiance or salt the earth for power.
Everything the Sheriff fears in them, he became long ago. ’
‘You’ve always had a dangerous tongue.’ Tilda’s mouth presses thin, but the rebuke lacks passion.
She looks over her shoulder again before leaning closer to the bars.
‘Things have gotten worse than you know since you vanished. The Sheriff and his men have turned this place into a barracks. They come and go as they please, drunk on power if not on wine. Your father’s not himself – half their prisoner, half their partner.
And the Sheriff . . .’ She swallows. ‘He’s obsessed, Marian.
He’s got it in his head that if he can catch this Robin Hood and his band of outlaws, he’ll be crowned a hero by the king himself. ’
The muscle in Marian’s jaw twitches. ‘And he thinks I’ll be the bait to catch him,’ she seethes. ‘The moment I’ve served my purpose, he’ll throw me to his dogs.’
Tilda’s face tightens, grief and fury warring beneath her wrinkles. ‘That’s how men often are,’ she murmurs, fingers curling tighter around the bars. ‘They take and take, and when there’s nothing left, they call it loyalty.’
Marian huffs a bitter laugh. ‘Not all men.’
The words slip out before she can catch them, and Tilda’s eyes narrow with sharp, maternal intuition. ‘Oh.’ Her voice drops, barely a breath. ‘So that’s what kept you alive out there.’
Marian meets her gaze at last, voice low but certain. ‘It’s not like that. He’s . . . He’s not what they say. He’s dangerous, yes, but not cruel. Not like the Sheriff. When he looks at me, I don’t feel small. I don’t feel owned.’
A door closes somewhere above, and both their heads snap toward the sound.
‘You should go,’ Marian whispers.
Tilda’s hand lingers, thumb brushing the grime on Marian’s cheek as if she could erase the bruise there. Her touch trembles, caught between comfort and farewell. ‘I’ll come back when I can,’ she whispers, but her eyes betray the fear that this may be the last time.
Marian shakes her head. ‘It’s too risky.’
Her old handmaiden swallows hard and pulls her hand back. ‘I can—’
‘Please,’ Marian begs, her voice breaking.
Tilda hesitates, torn between defiance and obedience. She steps back and wipes her palms on her apron, as though scrubbing away the courage that drove her there. ‘Be careful, Marian. Men like the Sheriff will keep you alive only so he can watch you break by his hand.’
Marian’s throat thickens as she watches Tilda hurry back up the stairs.
In the cell beside her, Allen groans as consciousness trickles back in. Slowly, he sits up and looks around, until he finds her and smiles. He’s broken and blood-stained, and one of his eyes is swelling shut, but at least he’s alive.
‘You look like hell,’ he rasps.
Her laugh cracks, bitter and raw. ‘You’re one to talk.’ Marian closes her eyes. The sound of the forest is still there, faint but steady, like a heartbeat beneath the earth. She feels it under her skin, a pull in her blood, a promise that it has not forgotten her.
Let the Sheriff believe he’s already won.
He may cage her body, but the wild in her is already sharpening its teeth.