Live.
Afternoons pass by in a blur of visits to Carys, Uther, and their new son. They’ve named him Nevin—their little saint—and the joy that suffuses the air of their apartments is strong enough to make my eyes sting with tears. I am not the only one who gravitates toward it. More often than not, a handful of Ember Guild members are there when I arrive, seated around the sturdy kitchen table discussing strategy in low tones so as not to wakethe babe, or demonstrating swordplay techniques with fallen branches from the slender birch tree in the courtyard below, their blows no more than soft clicks of bark. I watch these displays of unexpected consideration with ill-concealed amusement as I tend the fledgling garden I’ve planted, trying not to laugh as Cadogan and Mabon’s sparring match dissolves into an argument conducted entirely with vulgar hand gestures.
When she will let me—which is seldom, for she is quite reluctant to relinquish her son for more than a few moments at a time—I help Carys with Nevin. She has bounced back to full energy with remarkable speed and seems a tireless blur of activity despite my gentle rebukes to rest, my urging to recover her full strength. She is impatient to reclaim her dressmaking work, picking up the threads she was forced to set aside during the final stretch of her pregnancy.
As she checks the intricate stitching of my Fyremas dress for the hundredth time during Nevin’s afternoon nap, I remind her that she has more important stitches to worry about—my own handiwork needs time to heal. But she merely waves away my words with a flippant remark.
“I’m a seamstress, dear friend. I know stitches. I should think I can manage to remove a few when the time comes…”
The shadows beneath her and Uther’s eyes tell me their son’s strong lungs are keeping them awake at night, but neither of them ever complains. Nevin is a long-awaited miracle. Their love for him burns bright, evident in the soft brush of their lips on his wrinkled forehead, in the gentleness of their fingers adjusting his blankets or rocking his cradle. I have never seen such undisguised affection before. Such unconditional devotion.
I catch myself watching them with a mix of fascination and deep longing that evening, the night before the festival. Wondering how any parent could feel such things for their child and stillchoose to abandon her; how any parent could wrap their newborn in a basket and leave her at the edge of the world, an offering for unknown gods.
I think I do a good job of keeping these thoughts clear of my expression as I examine the trio from beneath my lashes. But there is no hiding from Penn. I do not have to turn to see him seated by the wall, his tall form half in shadow, engaged in a hushed discussion with Farley and Cadogan. I can feel him there with sharp clarity, like he is touching me; as though he has reached across the length of the room and run a finger down my spine, setting every nerve ending aflame.
I can hardly focus on the twyllo cards in my hand, let alone recall the wagering rules Jac and Mabon are attempting to teach me. Eventually, the sensation grows so heightened, I can no longer withstand it. Throwing down my hand, I jolt to my feet, an abrupt move that draws more attention than I want. Every set of eyes snaps to me at once.
“Rhya, love, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I assure Carys. “Just a bit tired. I’m going to head back to the palace early and get a good night of rest before tomorrow’s festivities.” I look at Jac, who is frozen with his mug halfway to his mouth. His blue eyes are wide. “Will you walk me back?”
He glances fleetingly into the shadows where Penn sits before pushing to his feet. His mug hits the table with a low thunk. “Sure, Ace. Happy to escort you.”
I grab my cloak from its hook by the door and whip it around my shoulders. My fingers fumble on the neck clasp, trembling under the weight of several intent sets of eyes, but eventually I manage to get it fastened.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Concern feathers across Carys’s features as she crosses toward me. “We’ve got plenty to spare.”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.” Before she can say another word, I cast a sweeping glance around the room, too quickly to lock eyes with anyone in particular. “Good night, everyone.”
I bolt out of the apartment and practically run down the narrow staircase into the darkened dress shop, not pausing to wait for Jac until I hit the street. I lean against a lamppost, breathing hard. After a few moments, the front door swings open with a chime of bells at my back.
“I thought you’d be halfway to the palace by now, you ran out so fast.”
Gods damn it.
My eyes press closed at the voice—a deep rasp that belongs not to the man I expected, but to the one I am trying so desperately to escape. I take a steadying breath before I turn to face Penn. Our gazes snag instantly. I have no earthly idea what to say to him. Where he is concerned, my thoughts have never felt so murky.
“Carys said you’d be needing this.” He gestures to the flat white box tucked under his arm. A shiny gold ribbon ties its lid.
“My Fyremas gown,” I murmur. I’d been in such a rush out the door, I forgot to grab the parcel Carys so lovingly prepared. “Thanks,” I tack on belatedly, reaching out for it. My hands shake visibly.
“I’ll carry it back for you.”
“You?” My brows knit. “I thought Jac was to escort me.”
“Jac is well into his third ale. He’s not escorting anyone anywhere. I’ll walk with you.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m sure Mabon or Cadogan—”
“I’m heading back now, anyway.” His dark brows lift nearly to his hairline. “Unless there’s some reason you find my company objectionable.”
“None at all,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Lead the way, then.”
I promptly begin marching down High Street. Penn falls into step beside me, matching my determined pace in easy strides. He is annoyingly long-legged. I scowl as I turn onto King’s Avenue. Though it becomes difficult to hold on to any real sense of anger as the lively atmosphere of the city pulls me firmly into its embrace.
All around, the streets throb with life. It is the dinner hour, typically a quiet time, but tonight, instead of gathering around their tables, Caelderans fill their front walks, chatting animatedly as they ready their homes for the following day’s festivities. Stoops are swept clean, doorsteps decorated. Wreaths are hung on windows. Garlands of holly and juniper wind their way up railings. The banner of Dyved flies from lampposts and awnings, the flaming mountain waving proudly in the breeze. Overnight, large metal barrels have appeared on every corner, each stacked high with kindling in preparation for the fires that will burn from dusk until dawn.