I meet her steady appraisal, her eyes cast with a knowing glint.
Slowly, I slide my gaze past her to the men perched around tables, shoveling chowder and bread, guzzling ale, throwing the occasional look in my direction.
They all know who I am.
Bile claws up my throat. Threatens to choke me.
Murderer.
“I could always climb through the window,” I grind out through gritted teeth.
“You’d have to smash it, and in doing so, piss off Mr. Graves.” She tilts her head, the motion almost predatory. “Thirty years he spent pillaging copper pipes from the city’s underbelly to fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming an innkeeper, and glass is not cheap. Do you really want to cost him a month’s earnings to replace a windowpane just to avoid eating his wife’s famous chowder?”
“Even if I was hungry, it’s not your concern.”
“Quite the opposite. It’smyjob to make sure everyone’s heartily fed, and I take my orders seriously. I can hear your stomach howling from here.”
“Who—” I suck a jagged breath, willing my hammering heart to slow. “Who gave your orders?”
“Who do you think?” She gives me a knowing look, then turns to her own bowl. Grabbing the wooden spoon, she blows on a chunk of fish she digs from the broth, devouring it with gusto while more fractures crackle across my dome.
The tapered tip of a wiggling vine peeks through one of the hairline clefts.
If she knew what I’ve done—that he’s gone—I doubt she would be treating me with such hospitality.
What if I told her what he was? The things he’s done? That Isavedlives?
Your monster.
I close my eyes and rummage through my gloomy insides—plucking, squishing, smoothing those little beads of light. Jamming luster into the cracks. My blood turns slow and slushy, plagued with ice fractals that make me clench my jaw; make my muscles twitch.
Opening my eyes, I stare at the chowder. The hot curls of steam lifting off it.
It seems like an easy trade, but my roiling insides tell me otherwise.
I could snatch the key and sprint toward the stairwell at my back. There’s a good chance I’m swifter on my feet—
As though reading my thoughts, Cindra sets her hand atop the key and slides it close to her chest, guarding it with her body.
Something surges inside me, fierce and feral, erupting with teeth-gnashing violence. I consider the consequences of demanding she hand me the key by the point of my dagger, stealing another quick look around the room. At the men, no doubt concealing weapons.
I sense tension in their glances, as though they’re assessing the violent path of my thoughts.
If she’s their overseer, as I suspect … I’d put up a good fight, but it’d be a stupid one.
Cindra spoons a prawn into her mouth and tears a round of bread in two, lumping half beside my bowl, then using hers to mop some broth.
I frown.
Breaking a loaf to share is a sign of respect in most territories. It would be a bit rude if I threatened to stab her now.
With a resigned sigh, I plant my elbows on the table and curl over my bowl, grabbing the spoon with my sliced hand. I eat my fill of the hearty meal, a fullness that does nothing to feed the hollow in my chest; the void like a chapped wasteland with the absence of my caged emotions.
Stealing peeks of the key tucked in the protective shield of her arms, I guzzle the entire mug of water in one long tip. I thump the mug on the bar, scrape the remaining chowder up, and scoop it into my mouth, then drop the spoon in the bowl and extend my hand.
Staring at the back wall, I wait, fingers curling around the key the moment it’s placed in my palm. I shove off the stool and stalk toward the stairwell.
“Orlaith.” My name is served with the confident precision of someone far too familiar with it.
