‘But there’s always room for improvement,’ he adds, grinning at me while he chews.
I snatch it back, trying my best to scowl.
I can’t help noticing that things between us have felt …differentthese past few days. Grief is heavy, and ever since he told me about Freya, Fox seems lighter. He was reluctant at first, defensive to the point of anger. Yet it wasn’t me he needed to confront, but rather his own loss. His refusal to let himself feel it. I looked at him, and I saw myself. For years, I bottled up my grief as though it were poison in a glass vial. I swallowed it down again and again, in the hope that one day it would run dry. But I was wrong.
Sometimes, the only way to survive pain is to accept it.
Scout pokes her head out of Fox’s satchel and licks his hand. Her unexpected arrival is yet another reason for his good humour, though I can’t seem to account for her absence.
‘She’s a wild animal – she goes where she pleases,’ Fox had insisted, as saidwild animalcurled up to sleep in his lap.
The road is wide and winding and lined with all manner of stores – apothecaries and butchers, glassblowers and cobblers, even a tailor claiming to sell the finest Vosti silks.
It’s not long before the sign we’re seeking swings into view. The blacksmith, a squat man with an unkempt beard, stands outside his forge, hammer in hand.
‘My horse requires a shoe,’ Fox tells him.
‘Please,’ I add pointedly.
The blacksmith shakes his head. ‘Won’t be ready till tomorrow.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ Fox says firmly. ‘We need it now.’
‘Can’t be done. I’m snowed under. The Baron’s ordered a ton of new weaponry for his fighting pit.’
‘Fighting pit?’ I repeat.
‘Mm-hm. There’s nothing the Baron of Wellwall enjoys more than a brawl. Come back in the morning at first light.’ He gestures vaguely. ‘You’ll find an inn round that corner.’
Fox frowns and tugs me aside to talk privately. ‘I don’t like this,’ he mutters.
He’s right to be cautious. We were supposed to be in and out before anyone gave us a second glance.
‘It’s not ideal,’ I agree. ‘But you said yourself that without a properly fitted shoe, Cedar could end up injuring himself.’
Fox rakes a hand through his hair, his expression torn.
‘Besides,’ I continue, ‘the people believe that you’re on a ship bound for the far corners of the earth and that I’m holed up in a safe house.’
I glance in the direction of the inn. Foolish or not, I can’t deny that the idea of a few hours of comfort appeals to me. ‘Just think, a meal that doesn’t involve digging through soil. Proper beds. Pillows. Pudding …’
Fox rolls his eyes, but I can sense his resolve beginning to weaken.
‘It’s just one night,’ I add.
‘Fine,’ he says, handing Cedar’s reins to the blacksmith. ‘Just one night.’
The inn itself appears fairly rundown – a patchwork of crumbling bricks threaded with moss and covered in browning ivy. Yet the view beyond the doors is a vast deal more inviting. The hall is littered with stools and spindle-legged tables piled high with food and wine, and suspended from the beamed ceiling are several cast-iron chandeliers dripping wax. A fire crackles in the hearth, enveloping the room in a delicious wave of heat.
Patrons crowd the bar, while others are hunched over tankards of mead. A group of young men sit with their heads together at the far side of the room, half obscured by a large barrel of ale. I edge round a cluster of raucous old women towards a table tucked in the corner, directly underneath a portrait of Queen Aspen. The likeness is impressive, with the artist even having managed to capture her slightly dreamy countenance.
By all accounts, the Grove – the towering forest the queen called home – is in mourning for its fallen leader. Leaves whisper and wail, the trees drooping under the weight of their grief. Being Terrathian, she was buried – laid to rest in the earth for all eternity.
It’s only then I notice Fox’s expression, the guilt creasing his brow.
‘Want to sit somewhere else?’ I ask.
He swallows, then shakes his head and drops on to a stool.
