VANN
The fire burns low, casting a dim, crimson glow across the stone walls in our room. Outside, gusts of wind whistle through the mountain peaks, but here, in the shelter of the guest quarters, all is quiet.
I don't sleep, despite knowing we will leave in the morning.
Instead, I sit on the ground across from the bed and watch Arlet. I draw her again, charcoal scraping against a leafof paper.
My body thrums with energy. Anticipation.
She sleeps as she usually does—on her side, her breathing soft and even. The light catches the curve of her cheekbone, the straight angle of her nose, the strands of copper hair that have escaped her braids and now fall across the pillow.
Something deep in my gut tightens.
I remember her running away from me. She had raced through the gardens, darting behind corners and jumping over a bench. I hadn’t known she could move so fast. She’d told me to go and then begged for me to stay.
It was awful, but there was one thing she repeatedly called out for in distress. One person who put her at ease. One person she could trust.
Me.
I hope she will ask for me again when her mind clears.
I had told her to do so. But, like a coward, I only whispered the words after she had gone to sleep.
I shift against the wall. Not being near her hurts.
A soft sound breaks the silence.
I tense.
Arlet's breath catches. Her brows knit together, and her hands fist the blanket. Then she bolts upright with a gasp. Her chest heaves and her cheeks are flushed.
"Firelocks?” I ask, maneuvering onto my knees. For a second, I am cautious, but her eyes are brown and beautiful, not at all black. “What’s wrong?”
She looks at me.
"Vann,"she says and relaxes back into the cushion. “Yes. Sorry. I just… had a bad dream.”
“I understand.”
We share a smile, but then her easy expression fades. Her mouth goes slack, her eyes widen, and her shoulders rise.
Mild horror. Over last night?
“Are you well?” I ask.
“Yes,” she breathes, and then rolls over, facing the window and wall. “I’m tired—we should both go back to bed.”
From the rise and fall of her shoulders, it looks like her breath is short. She seems totally lucid. Evasive.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t respond for a few minutes.
“I still feel… uneasy.”
I sit forward. “Uneasy how? Is the wine still?—”
“No,” she says quietly. Definitively.