He’d tossed the map on the bed, too, and I ventured forward to pick it up. Balancing Nutmeg, I unfolded the page again and scrutinized the drawing of trees and towns we would be bypassing on our way to… I saw it, then, scribbled near the bottom: Wendwood.
“The gall of that man,” Kit muttered. “He could’ve waited till tomorrow like all the others. Gods know I’m in no rush to be trapped in a cart with him.”
“He said he wanted to get an early start.”
Kit snorted. “All the better for an early finish, then. How did he even know ahead of time to have a bag packed?”
Moving to the standing wardrobe, he dug out his traveling bag and started stuffing the clothes into it. I’d seen him pack before. It was usually a fastidious task, with careful folding and rolling to make the best use of the available space. This was the opposite, and it was finished in a flash.
With that situated, he seemed to relax, heaving a breath that made his shoulders droop. He gestured to the bag slumped open on the floor.
“Think your things will fit in there?” he asked.
I nodded and let Nutmeg spring away before rounding the foot of the bed toward the dresser. While Kit returned his knife to its sheath and strapped it to his belt, I tucked the map into my pocket, then turned my attention to the bottom drawer. From inside, I plucked out a couple of shirts and a fresh pair of trousers. With the clothing in hand, I turned toward Kit.
“Are we really going to do it?” I asked. “Steal from a mission?”
He backed up to sit on the edge of the mattress and braced his elbows on his knees. “I don’t see that we have another choice. Not with that idiot looking on.” He tossed his head toward the unseen living room.
I twisted my fingers in the wool fabric of the shirt in my hands. “Those are supplies for the town, Kit. The people there need those things to get through till spring?—”
“I’m well aware,” Kit interjected. His voice was muffled.
When I looked over at him, he sat hunched with his face cupped in his palms. I crouched before him and slid my hands from his knees up his thighs, counting on the touch to draw his notice.
Sure enough, he peered out at me. His eyelids drooped with fatigue despite the night’s rest.
“It doesn’t make you a bad man,” I told him. “None of this does.”
He hummed a low note. “Certainly doesn't make me a good one.”
Pushing up on my knees, I pecked a kiss on the exposed strip of his forehead.
“It’ll be worth it when it’s over,” I said, though I struggled to believe it. “Maybe we can repay Wendwood somehow, afterward…”
His hands slid away to reveal a weary smile. “And hope they're at least half as forgiving as you.”
I would have kissed him again but was stopped by the rap of cabinet doors closing in the kitchen.
Kit stiffened and sat up, straight-backed. “Is he making himself a meal now?”
He stood, shouldering past me on his way to the door. “Pack what you need,” he called back as he stepped into the hall. “I’ll deal with this.”
With the door left ajar in his wake, I heard a bit of the ensuing commotion. It turned out Kit could stomp through the tiny house almost as effectively as Anders when he was angry enough.
A few more cabinet doors clunked shut before a volley of voices rose from the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” Kit’s question resonated.
“Making a bit of breakfast. No good to travel on an empty stomach.”
“Didn’t you bring rations?”
“For the trip, yeah,” Anders replied. “I’m saving ‘em.”
I snickered and tucked a few undergarments into the sack, then tied it closed and hefted it over my shoulder. Navigating the hall, I entered the living room and found my sketchbook where I’d left it, but now laying open, clearly perused by our nosy guest.
With a frown, I flipped the book closed and tucked it under my arm, then looked ahead at the kitchen where Kit and Anders stood at odds.
