Chapter 14 A Trade
A Trade
Once I recover from the slight shock of being left alone in a stranger’s apartment, I consider snooping for anything that may tell me more about Brynn.
But I think better of it. He didn’t say how long he would be gone and a bath sounds heavenly.
I’ve been here a day and a half at most, but I’ve been in the same dress and undergarments—unheard of for a princess.
The same outfit I’d worn into Aston, too.
It smells like Storm the horse, sticky buns, and dirt.
I wish I’d thought to bring an extra change of clothes.
Not that there was much time for thinking when I left.
I retreat to the washroom to draw the bath water.
Alma’s face floats to mind, as this is a task she usually does for me.
I ponder if it was wise to tell Brynn I was a maid—perhaps I should have told him I was a lady-in-waiting, like Alma.
She has more freedom than a typical servant.
Unoriginally, maid was my first thought at the word chains…
It’s much harder to explain why being a princess evokes feelings of imprisonment.
Though—perhaps I should use my title. Perhaps it would be easier to help Mavick if I flaunt it. Or perhaps it means nothing here. Perhaps it’s a surefire way to get abducted and held for ransom. Maybe it’s safest if I keep it to myself.
I would be lying if I said I was all that worried about what’s safe—my aversion to my title outweighs even that.
I do not need the judgement, expectations, and babying that come with it.
Whatever the reason, best to withhold that information until I know with certainty that it won’t be a hindrance in my efforts to find Mavick.
But… perhaps it’s self-serving to believe the riddle, the dagger, this quest was even meant for me.
Maybe I wasn’t supposed to stumble upon Mavick’s blood.
Maybe I’m not destined to be the one that saves them.
I want to believe that I came here for them.
But perhaps I came here for me, too—for a chance to be someone else.
Someone more than my title, if only for a moment.
I sigh. Doubting myself is my favorite pastime of late.
I wash my entire body, hair and skin, with soap that smells of lavender and mint.
Like a good scrub will wash away all my apprehension.
Once my fingertips prune, I stand to wring my hair over the water circling the tub’s drain and wrap myself in the washroom’s lone towel.
I step out of the bath, listening for sounds of movement in the apartment.
Once sure Brynn has not returned, I slink to the bedroom, slamming its door behind me.
The copper light fades through one small window.
Other than the large bed with tangled sheets, the room appears neat.
The only other piece of furniture is a medium-sized dresser, with a small library of books arranged on top.
The majority are language and history books, like Sanctuary: A History of the Realm.
But a small leatherbound journal catches my eye.
I flick through its pages and discover it’s handwritten—and full of symbols resembling the dagger’s High Sanctuarian inscription.
I return it to its place, noting the lack of dust. So when Brynn stays here, he sticks to the bedroom.
But where does he spend the rest of his time?
Opening the dresser drawers, I find Brynn’s clothes.
Plain tunics and pants. He’s much taller than me, so a tunic will work as a short dress until I find something better.
And it will be necessary to find something, I suppose, as it seems I may be here longer than foreseen.
My body is dry now that I’ve taken the time to snoop around, so I drop the towel and quickly slide a light tunic over my head.
As expected, it sits a few inches above my knees.
Pressing the towel to my damp hair, I return to the washroom.
On a whim, I throw my dirty clothes into the bathtub with a healthy measure of the lavender-mint soap and run more cool water—they too need a soak.
Not long after turning off the tap, I hear the front door open. Brynn calls out, “It’s me, please don’t jump out from behind the furniture and stab me with a kitchen knife.”
I chuckle—he can be funny. But all of a sudden, I am self-conscious. My pale legs are considerably exposed in his tunic, and my loose hair drips onto his floor. But my clothes soak in the bath, so it’s either this or I come out in the towel. Or naked. My options are limited.
“Don’t be mad.” I hesitate, pulling the door open slowly.
“Why would I be ma—?” Brynn starts in confusion, but his eyes widen as he turns to take me in. He looks mad.
“I swear I didn’t snoop—well, clearly that’s a lie, but I didn’t snoop much—I didn’t bring clothes with me and my dress smelled like Storm—a horse—and Aston, and I—th—they’re soaking in the tub, so I grabbed a tunic—”
He holds up a hand to silence me and the muscle in his jaw spasms. “We’ll find you proper clothing.”
Brynn’s eyes linger over my body, particularly where the ends of my wet hair rest at my bust. When he too notices, he clears his throat and quickly turns to set the dining table. I skirt around it to find his mask of fixed indifference has returned.
“I’m not sure you’ve ever eaten a proper Sanctuarian meal, so I got a variety for you to try—in case,” he says. I am dumbstruck at the thoughtful gesture. He pulls out a chair and I drop into it dizzily. He continues, “I’m no cook. I got the basics, and whatever the finfolk had for sale today.”
“The finfolk?”
Brynn smirks but does not look at me as he unpacks the bag of food. “It’s the species of fae you so kindly deemed ‘fish-heads.’ Like Old Brittle.”
The color drains from my face. “Good to know.”
Brynn spreads out several different loaves of bread, cheeses, jams, a couple of thinly sliced meats, and two grilled, salmon-like fish.
There’s also some fruit I’ve never seen, a mystery tart, and a jug of, I believe, faeplum ale.
He produces two glasses from a cabinet, inspecting and wiping them on his shirt in case of dust. He sets one in front of me.
I take the ale and pour myself a timid glass before offering him the jug.
It’s embarrassing to confess, but I can’t recall the last time I dined with anyone.
Sometimes my father would ask me to join him, but as of late, he was too busy. I eat alone more often than not.
“Thank you for this, Brynn,” I say, and I mean it.
He freezes—whether at my sincere gratitude, the fae distaste for it, the sound of his true name, or all the above, I’m unsure—but shrugs it off as if it’s nothing.
He pours his own glass of ale, settles into the seat across from me, and patiently begins naming everything.
Nothing seems too out of the ordinary or unusual, apart from some colorful cheeses.
The thin meat is turkey and venison. The fish is indeed a type of salmon.
The fruit is a grund, which resembles an apple outwardly, but the inside is seedless and blue.
The tart is faeplum too, same as the ale.
It’s a very common, popular Sanctuarian fruit I learn.
Brynn takes random bites while pointing out dishes, and before long, I’m unceremoniously shoveling food into my mouth.
We don’t talk as we feast, but every now and then I catch him watching me.
Much like in the tavern, it’s hard to discern if his expression is one of awe or disgust. My hunger outweighs my decorum.
“Where do you live other than here?” I ask, breaking the silence before it grows too comfortable.
“Ah, back to the interrogation already?” he says with a dark laugh.
“I’m not really familiar with Sanctuary… all I know of is Mayhem. I assume there’s other villages or cities around.”
“Yes, I also live in Royal City. It’s beyond the Blackwoods north of Mayhem. A three- or four-day journey, depending.”
“Royal City?” I ask, confused. “Is that the capital of Sanctuary?”
Brynn’s eyes narrow, debating my seriousness.
Mouth full, he nods. The fae are quite literal.
Mayhem. Royal City. I assume the Blackwoods to be the northern forest I observed upon my arrival, so named because they are full of blackwood trees.
Trees so gray and barren that, when viewed as a whole, resemble a smudge of charcoal.
“Where do you live if not Aston?” Brynn asks next.
I foresaw this, pondered it in my bath. It would be difficult to explain a trip back to the castle if it became necessary, so—
“I work for the royal family—of the Kingdom of Clouds,” I say with a casual shrug, “so I stay at Castle Gale.” It’s not not true. Brynn’s face does not show any recognition as he takes another bite. “Why do you need my help to find your mother?”
“Well,” Brynn says, forcibly swallowing a mouthful of grund, “much like you with Sanctuary, I know nothing of the mortal realm. I’ve only been to Aston once. It would be helpful to have a guide. Someone more familiar with the mortal customs.”
“I know of Sanctuary—from what Mavick told me… I’ve just never seen a map of it,” I say. Brynn chuckles.
I push down the nagging worry that I will be of no use to him in the mortal realm. He doesn’t need to know that to help me here. A dreadful combination of guilt and anxiety coats the pit of my stomach.
“Do you have any other fun poems or clues that may help us pinpoint who would have taken them?” he asks.
“No. I was so focused on the trade aspect of the stupid riddle that I rather… lost sight of everything else. And the dagger was a dead end, I suppose. Do you know where Mavick frequented? Any specific taverns? Shops? I’m not even sure where to begin.”