Dressing quickly, I barreled down the hall and into the kitchen where Kit sat at the table, drinking coffee.
“Ready?” I asked, a bit breathless.
He cocked his head toward me, then considered his half-full coffee mug. “There’s no rush. No Anders urging us out the door this time.” He chuckled to himself and took another sip of the steaming drink.
No Anders, but I did have to consider my half-brother, who likely hadn’t stopped cursing my name since I interrupted his sleep. I considered him, but I wouldn’t mention him. Not to Kit. Maybe not at all. Certainly not until we were far enough removed from Ashpoint that if Merrick’s anger caused him to explode, we would be out of range of the blast.
“Ready to get it over with is all,” I explained, turning to rummage through the cabinets for a quick breakfast. “Not especially excited about wreaking havoc on someone’s farm. Hits a bit close to home, you know?”
It was hardly a question, and it felt unfair to push my guilt onto him, but I was in an odd state with exhaustion and excitement, anticipation and dread stuffed inside me like ingredients in a stew. Bad enough to worry about Merrick blowing up over our earlier encounter. I felt so full I might burst, too.
Kit rose and pushed his chair in. “About that?—”
“Are you ready?” I faced him with a biscuit and a piece of jerky in my hands.
He frowned, then nodded. “I suppose I am.”
We stopped at the stables where we said goodbye to Thoma while picking up Flint and our cart. The crate of rats was already loaded in the back, packed so full the vermin had to crawl on top of each other to move. I shuddered at the sight and took my seat on the bench beside Kit. I would surely get some rest later but, for now, I was too busy checking over my shoulder for Merrick or Violette charging after us with their fists raised.
Luckily, our departure was uneventful.
Outside the city gate, the cart bumped along the road and Kit guided the horse with ease. I opened my sketchbook and, as two hours passed and the terrain shifted from rocks to sparse stands of trees, I doodled a few things. Icicles hanging from branches and squirrels peeking from their leaf litter dens.
Kit was quiet, and I felt more like yawning than talking until he leaned over to comment on my sketch in progress.
“You really are quite talented, you know.”
I added the last tuft of hair to the squirrel's bushy tail, then tucked my pencil behind my ear. “Not sure if it's talent or practice. Some good must come from all the time I waste on it.”
“It's not a waste,” Kit replied. “Art’s a way to capture the beauty of life, to frame it for a moment. You're good at that. I enjoy seeing things through your eyes.” Smiling, he faced the road once more.
I smiled, too, still surprised by supportive comments about my sketching. Mother and Father gave some compliments about it, though less so the older I got since I often neglected my chores for the sake of penciling something in a book or on a page. And Merrick was outspoken about the frivolity of it all. The notion of it being wasteful came directly from him.
Closing the sketchbook, I smoothed my hand across the leather cover Kit had etched himself. He had a good eye and talent he often denied. It made me wonder.
“Did you ever try it for yourself?” I glanced over at him. “Drawing, I mean.”
He shook his head. “It isn't the sort of thing my father would have had patience for. I don't think he would have seen or understood beauty even if it struck him between the eyes.”
He chuckled, and I joined in. His smile lingered, and I couldn't shake the thought of how soft it was, how gentle he could be—always was, really, though he tried to hide it. I wanted to touch his cheek and his lips slightly pinked from the cold, to see if he felt as tender as he looked right now, but his next words interrupted my thoughts.
“I've been meaning to ask about your sketches.” He hardly paused long enough for me to respond before he continued. “Do you ever draw people?”
I glanced down at the book resting atop my thighs. “Only one really,” I admitted.
“Me,” Kit said.
My head whipped aside with both brows raised. “How'd you know?”
“Anders.”
The confession rocked me and reminded me of the lumberman's taunts about what he'd seen in the pages of my sketchbook. He'd invaded a world that was meant to only be mine, then made a mockery of it.
“He told you?” I asked and, when Kit nodded, I groaned. “Oh, gods…”
Kit chuckled again. “I don't mind. I'm actually a bit flattered, though I'm not quite sure I fit in with your usual fare.”
He glanced over, meeting my gaze so I could see the full scope of his face. Skin tinted with blush, hair and eyes stark in the light of the morning. The lines of his jaw and the hollows of his cheeks were all just right. Shaped in a way that, of course, I wanted to draw.
