Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“What’s a raagle?”
“Scavenger birds.” He shakes his head. “With a wingspan as wide as my arm. While you fight them off, the barbed branch you want will fight with you, too. Those ugly trees grow in tight knots of a dozen or more, and they hold on to their arms and legs jealously—and with good reason. Their wood is nearly as strong as what this sword is made out of.”
As I measure my find, which I had always assumed had been discarded due to age, Merc concludes, “But if you prevail in your gathering, the reward is the handle on a little knife that will never rot, and retains a certain purchase, even when wet.”
“You have spent time in the north, then?”
There is a long silence. “I was born there. A very long time ago.”
It’s hard to imagine him as a young man, still growing into his full height and stature, harder still to picture him as a boy. And it’s utterly impossible to see him as a bairn, wrapped in swaddling cloth, all wide, innocent eyes and button nose.
“Is that where your family as yet resides?” I ask.
His head shakes a brisk “no” as he refocuses on the meat, but that pensive look stays on his profile.
“It seems like a place you miss,” I murmur.
His expression closes up again, his mouth flattening, his eyes narrowing on our meal. “Mourning anything is wasted effort. People, locations, objects. There are enough prisons around that you don’t volunteer for. Sentiment shouldn’t be added to that list.”
I think of my hovel beneath the stairs, and wish I could smell the subtle spice from my herbing, and set my head upon my bundled cloaks, and fall asleep under the sound of footfalls going up and down those creaky wooden steps. The yearning I feel is so strong, it’s painful, and I have an inkling that he may be right. After the events of tonight, dwelling on what I’ve been forced to flee from seems like an agonizing waste.
And I can’t bear what was done to Mare.
Picturing my last view of Mr. Lewis, my mind revisits his astonishing revelations in no particular order, as if my thoughts circle something left for dead, and then my eyes shift to my cloak and the pack. They are where I left them—
“Here.”
The flat plane of the broadsword swings in my direction, and I jerk back.
“You really think I’m going to hurt you?” Merc mutters.
It seems pointless to reply that I was just surprised. He seems spoiling for an argument.
“Use your knife,” he orders. “It’s too hot to touch.”
Doing as he says, there’s something intimate in my blade meeting his as I spear what he offers. But then I have a problem. Over the course of my life, I’ve only eaten four things: greens that Mr. Lewis cultivates in his garden beyond the wall, milk that was delivered daily by Mr. Cavenish, bread that was the staple of the Gauntlet’s working girls, and psears from the trees that grow on the south shore of the moat.
Part of the dietary restriction was economic. I was at the bottom of the social hierarchy and very poor. Any delicacies like meat, candies, or exotic fare the travelers brought to market went into mouths that could afford such things, and I certainly was never invited to those tables. The other part was practical. If my knowledge of herbs taught me anything, experimentation with growing things can be perilous. Just because a fruit or vegetable sprouts and matures for the sun doesn’t mean it’s safe, and if I guessed wrong? No one would have helped me if I succumbed to a bad mushroom or root.
“Is there a problem,” he says.
“I’ve never had meat before.”
“You lie—”
“It’s true. Who’s wasting that on me?”
Sniffing at the still-steaming piece, I’m surprised that my mouth waters and my stomach growls at the scent. With a piercing anticipation, I bring it to my mouth—
The linen sheath is in the way.
“You might as well show me.” His voice is remote. “Considering our agreement. Or do I need to remind you of what I’m getting in return for my efforts on your behalf.”
Shifting around, I bring the sheath up until I can lift the veiling enough to get my knife under the cover. I’ve never been so glad to have my face hidden. Then again, I’m blushing so furiously, maybe I’m casting a red glow.
“No kissing,” I blurt.
“That was not part of our—”
“Working girls do not kiss the patrons.”
He chuckles deep in his throat. “That, my dear, is not true.”
The idea he’s paid for women before shocks me. Then again, would it be better for him to have found a true love and never strayed out of loyalty? And why in fates do I care about his bedding partners.
“Sallae Mae never kissed the patrons,” I retort. “None of the working girls at the Gauntlet do.”