I frown. ‘What?’
‘Theidiot,’ says Fox. ‘Weak, foolish, easily led, the hapless young emperor, brother to the Earth Cleaver, and by all accounts, still infatuated with the Storm Weaver.’
I grimace.
‘All in all, the three of us are hardly endearing ourselves to the people,’ Fox continues. ‘It’s little wonder support for Balen grows by the day.’
Nausea churns in my stomach.
For a while, neither of us speaks. Fox keeps watch while I roll rabbit bones across the floor for Scout to chase.
After about an hour, just as my eyes are beginning to droop, Fox jerks his head down towards the courtyard. ‘They’re leaving.’
I push myself to my feet and watch the four Ventalla soldiers mount their horses and ride away down the winding road.
‘We should get some sleep,’ says Fox.
I glance behind him at the bed. The swooping feeling returns, and I resent the heat that floods into my cheeks. It’sstupid, really. I’ve spent weeks sleeping next to Fox. Well, notnext to, exactly. There was always a few feet of space between us, or a fire, or even branches if he’d fashioned himself a hammock from vines. But this is different.
‘We’re not sharing the bed,’ I say, a little too loudly.
Fox shrugs. ‘Fine by me.’
I blink in surprise. That was easy.
I watch as he swipes a pillow and blanket and tosses them on to the floor. He kicks off his boots, and I slip out of the door, heading along the narrow corridor to the bathing room at the end of the hall. After weeks in the forest, even these slightly grubby facilities feel luxurious. Yet as I scrub myself clean, I’m surprised to find I miss the cool waters of the Creek, the scent of Fox’s pinewood soap, the trill of birdsong overhead.
I take a deep breath and glance briefly at my reflection in the cracked mirror before returning to the room, ready to collapse into bed. Only when I push open the door, I discover that it’s already occupied.
Fox is sprawled on his back, shirtless, one arm tucked behind his head. Scout is curled up at his feet, fast asleep.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ I demand. ‘We agreed we weren’t going to share.’
‘And we aren’t,’ says Fox, nodding to the corner of the room where he flung the spare pillow and blanket.
I narrow my eyes. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘What?’ Fox smirks. ‘It’s not me who has a problem with sharing. Did you really expect me to volunteer to sleep on the floor?’
‘Honestly? Yes,’ I snap.
‘Why? Because you’re a girl? Or because you’re the queen?’
I glare at him.
‘Goodnight, Storm Weaver,’ he says smugly, closing his eyes.
Bastard.
For a moment I just stand there, seething. Then, with as much dignity as I can muster, I turn and stomp away, resolved not to let him win.
The floor is hard and a little dusty. There’s no fireplace, and the blanket is thin and slightly moth-eaten. It’s not long before the oil lamp burns itself out. I listen out for slow, rhythmic breathing but hear nothing. Fox must be lying awake too.
The low rumble of voices drifts up from a couple of floors below. I wonder what the innkeeper would say if she knew exactly who she’d welcomed into her establishment. Yet in spite of the risk, and the not-so-comfortable sleeping arrangements, I find myself revelling in the anonymity of it all, in the freedom of pretending to be someone other than myself, just like I did at the masquerade ball after the second trial.
I swallow, digging my nails into my palms. I can’t think about that night without thinking about what happened in the maze. About that kiss. What it had felt like. Whathehad felt like. The heat of his skin. The muscles in his shoulders. The pressure of his mouth on mine. He was a headrush. He was risk and danger and honey wine. He was a bad decision, one I cannot –willnot – make again.
And yet, the memories linger.
