Forehead pressed to the grain, I breathe deep, stare cast on the Bulbs and Botany mat scuffed with mud as the thick fall of rain continues to pelt my back.
If this isn’t Gun and his partner’s store, I don’t know what I’ll do.
I have nowhere else to go.
Another crack of lightning, another blow of wind, and the sign hanging above me squeaks as it rocks with the rhythm of the crackling storm.
My pinch on the chain tightens, arm aching with the effort to hold the short lengths together, the dress I managed to climb into on my own only half done up at the back and drenched through beneath the fall of the equally sodden cloak.
Another knock—louder this time. More desperate.
Please be them.
Please be home.
Heavy footsteps thunk on the other side, and my chin wobbles. I feel the vibrations of a lock sliding sideways before the door is pulled open, almost taking me with it.
I straighten and lift my head, squinting into a pair of russet eyes from beneath the shield of my soaking hood—years etched in the fine lines pinching the corners of the man’s narrowed stare. A fine blue garb hangs loosely off his shoulders that are broad, despite his slight form, his face long and sharp, hand gripping a lantern that’s casting warm light across his tawny, freckle-dusted skin.
Behind him, an array of plants hang in planters, nest on wall shelves, and are eloquently piled atop a table in the center of the room.
No sign of Gun.
Panic pounds my chest in deep, crushing blows …
Perhaps this was a bad idea—perhaps I should have tried some of the other plant stores I passed on the way.
The man looks past me, left and right, rusty brows pulling together. “Are you lost?”
Maybe.
Swallowing, I use my free hand to push back my hood. I’m not sure what he sees in my eyes, but all the color saps from his cheeks, making his freckles stand out in stark comparison. He turns, his voice bellowing through the room. “Gunthar!”
Relief compresses my lungs. Almost buckles me.
There’s the sound of a door swinging; heavy footsteps thumping. Gun steps into the spill of lantern light, pinching the gold buttons into place on his dark blue tunic, eyes widening as he casts his gaze across my face. My hands. My bare and bloody feet.
“Orlaith ...”
I’m not sure why, but the sound of my name on his sturdy, familiar voice makes my eyes sting.
He grips me by the arm and pulls me out of the cold.
Istare blankly at a fading family portrait in the middle of the powder blue wall, framed by the aged branches of a tree that creeps from a terra-cotta pot perched in the corner of the room—the branches stuck to the walls reminding me of the mark that weaves across my shoulder.
Of the bloom I snipped.
Killed.
Of the men Ialsokilled.
I flinch from the thought, absorbing another stab of sting as Gun dabs at my knuckles with a damp piece of cotton.
Their house is all old-world elegance, filled with houseplants I couldn’t bring myself to appreciate while I was led through the shop, up two sets of stairs, and down a hall into this room. It’s immaculately kept, smelling like freshly baked oat cookies I can’t imagine Gun making.
I study the framed rendition of him—much younger. Looking more like Zane and less like the Captain I know. There’s also a girl, perhaps younger than him, tucked between who I suppose are their parents, her hair twisted into a golden coif.
I stare at her, mesmerized by her petite features, and the regal way she holds herself. At her big, lilac eyes—a little too large for her face—and her lips, thin yet shapely.
