She stiffens. “And whyever should a thing like that matter?”
I blink at her, not sure what to say. For that very thing has mattered a great deal to a great many people, ever since I learned the ways of the world.
She takes a purposeful step toward me and, in a precise move I cannot fail to miss, tucks her orderly, gray-streaked bob behind an ear. An ear with a tapered point at the tip.
An ear just like mine.
“You’re in the Northlands now, child,” she says simply, ignoring my startled gasp. As if that explains everything. As if the Northlands aren’t just as treacherous as anywhere else in Anwyvn—if not more so.
I decide not to push for an explanation as her hands clasp mine and she tugs me gently toward the bath.
“Come now. Let’s see what’s under all this dirt and dust, shall we?” She snaps her fingers at the two girls hovering by the tub. “Marta, Inga—help me get her out of this dress. While you wash her, I’ll find something suitable for her to wear. She’s not so far off my niece’s size, I should think…And this…” She grimaces as she eyes my formerly mint-green, now many-hued garment, its fabric streaked with a multitude of putrid stains. “This must be burned without delay.”
I might be insulted if it weren’t the gods’ honest truth. The dress isn’t even fit for cleaning scraps, at this point. I don’t put up a fuss as Marta and Inga whip it off me along with the woolen tunic and my tattered shift, clucking under their breath when they see how my ribs poke through my skin, how my hips and stomach have gone concave after the bitter months of flight stripped my former curves, day after day. They stare for a long moment at the strange triangular pattern between my breasts but curb their curiosity—for which I am eternally grateful. I have no answers when it comes to the supposed Remnant mark I bear.
They are gentle as they pull off my boots and socks, unraveling the cloth-strip bandages I’d applied last time we made camp. Before the bridge, before the mountain, before the cyntroedi. Before Jac or Farley or Mabon or Uther. Before I learned Scythe was Penn, and a prince at that.
Was that only last night?
It doesn’t seem possible.
Tears fill my eyes as I sink into the warm tub. It takes all my strength to keep them from spilling down my cheeks as the girls begin to wash me—dousing my head with scoops of water, lathering my hair with coarse soap that smells of evergreens. No onehas touched me with anything resembling kindness in so very long.
Physical contact is something I took for granted in all the years of my youth. There was never a time growing up when I was farther than a few steps from strong arms, from a steeling embrace. Eli may not have shared my blood or my race, but he showered me with all the affection of a father nonetheless. Most of my neighbors were good, kind folk, who accepted me without protest, for all that I was different. While halflings on the mainland were being executed in mass numbers, the peninsula remained a tolerant sanctuary.
And then, last summer, came Tomas. The baker’s apprentice with the quick smile and the flour-dusted hands. He may never have entertained a serious future with the healer’s halfling ward—not when he could have his pick of any perfect girl in our secluded hamlet—but he had touched my body with reverence and called me beautiful in the dark, when there was no one else around to hear.
It was not meant to last. Not for long, not for more than a handful of stolen nights in a summer meadow. But in his embrace, I got my first glimpse at a different sort of comfort, the kind that makes your heart ache and your skin burn. The kind that lights a fire inside your veins warm enough to ward off the chill of loneliness.
I’ve needed every scrap of warmth I could conjure since I left Seahaven behind. The real world is colder. Crueler. It is a rare person who offers another comfort instead of seeking to satisfy their own; who gives freely instead of taking. I had begun to wonder if I’d ever again feel the touch of another’s hands in any form other than violence. And so, as fingers work through the many snarls and tangles of my hair, as my nails are brushed clean ofdirt and my tired limbs are wiped with perfumed washcloths, I allow myself to float outside my body for a time, my mind completely disconnected from everything except the sensation of water around me, lulling me like a warm embrace.
It takes two full drainings and refillings before the bathwater runs clear and I am deemed, at last, suitably clean. My skin is red from their scrubbing and has long since gone clammy. My fingers are pruned at the tips. Marta and Inga wrap me up in a warm towel and pat my body dry before I catch cold.
Edwynna, the innkeeper, returns briefly to the bathing chamber with a bundle of clothing in her arms. I don’t ask where she found the undergarments and dress, merely thank her for doing so. They are too big for me but blessedly clean, the thick muslin fabric smelling of soap and dyed a faded reddish color that brings out the golden strands in my white-blond hair. They loop a braided bronze sash low on my waist, belting the fabric close to my frame. Its tassels hang almost to my feet, which are shoved into maroon slippers a half size too large.
Once I am dressed, Inga sits me down on a padded bench in front of the vanity mirror and brushes out my damp mane in luxurious strokes that make me want to purr like a cat. It has grown quite long since my last trim, falling well past my waist. Her deft fingers work quickly, braiding the top half into a thick circlet of tendrils around my crown, leaving the rest free to fall down my back in a cascade of loose curls.
“There.” She smiles at me, catching my eyes in the reflection. “You look quite lovely, miss.”
Lovelyis a stretch, though I do look significantly better than before. I am definitely still haggard, my eyes shadowed from unchecked exhaustion…but I am clean, clothed in a freshly laundered dress, and have been combed and clucked over with morekindness than at any other time in recent memory. I feel like a new woman.
“Thank you,” I murmur, trying out a smile. It does not quite reach my silver-blue eyes as they slide to Marta, who holds an armful of wet towels. “Both of you.”
“It’s our pleasure, my lady.”
I’d hoped I could simply go to bed after my bath, but I’m promptly ushered out of the bathing chamber, down the stairs, and into the tavern. In my hours of absence, a boisterous energy has infused the barroom. The tables are packed with patrons standing shoulder to shoulder, metal mugs of mead and ale frothing over the rims as they clank them together with cheers to good health. The fiddler is in high spirits, a lively jig spilling from his strings as the bow ebbs back and forth like a wave kissing doggedly at the shore.
Inga keeps one hand at the small of my back as she steers me through the crowd. Besides Edwynna and her girls, I note only one other woman in the whole room—a fearsome-looking fur trader with a cloak made from a white bear pelt, watching the door like she expects danger to step through it at any given moment. Her cold eyes shift toward me, and I immediately drop my gaze to the floorboards.
She is not my only observer. I feel the weight of many stares as Inga propels me forward. When I see where we are headed, relief and dread war for dominance within me. Jac and his men—minus one redhead with a shattered leg and an easy laugh—are gathered around a large oak table against the far wall, a position of honor beside the roaring fireplace. They all look freshly bathed, their hair still damp, their skin ruddy from scrubbing with coarse soap.
In the shadows closest to the wall, I can make out only thevaguest outline of another man. The breadth of his shoulders, the firm line of his torso. His face is hidden by darkness, his features disguised by the helm he wears, even now.
I halt a few paces away, digging my slippered heels into the hardwood when Inga tries to urge me onward. Jac is the first to spot me. His gaze, ever watchful, scans across the sea of revelry for potential threats. It skims right over me at first, passing by only to jerk back with a snap of his head. He sits up straighter in his chair as his eyes drink me in, a head-to-toe sweep.
“Skies!” He whistles so wolfishly, heat rises to my cheeks despite my best efforts. “Almost didn’t recognize you without goo in your hair, Ace!”
It seems my nickname is catching.