4
Sleep refused to come that night.
Gwyn fretfully tossed and turned in her bed, alternately glaring at the ceiling in the moonlight, and reaching to grope for the still-armed crossbow lying on the bed beside her. No doubt a grave safety hazard, but she couldn’t seem to bear the thought of putting it aside, away, out of her reach. And therefore possibly granting an orc —thatorc — another opportunity to try to have his devious way with her.
And that was a very real risk, Gwyn now knew, because a careful post-orc inspection of the door — now with a crossbow-bolt embedded deep into it — had proven all her worst fears. The door’s wooden slide had remained perfectly intact, meaning that the orc had somehow been able to open it from the outside, no doubt with one of those black claws. Perhaps the same claw that had slipped so sweetly into her mouth, nudging its velvet threat against her tongue, and…
Gwyn groaned aloud and rubbed at her eyes, flopping her head back on the pillow. Fighting, and failing, to rid her brain of the vision of the orc, so tall and lean and powerful, with that teasing smile always lurking at his mouth. And the sound of his voice, all low sultry honey, purring his audacious claims as though they were incontestable fact. Claims about Great-Aunt Agnes. About orcs in this damnedbedroom.
Andsurelythat had been a lie, craftily created to confound and convince her — and finally Gwyn shoved herself out of bed, and stalked back into the kitchen. To where she’d willingly touched an orc, and to where — she halted, and glowered toward it — he’d left the chasteberry plant he’d brought.
It was just sitting there on the table next to her notebook, silent and innocuous, as though it had always belonged there. And Gwyn was still cursing herself over that, because she hadn’t even seen the orc put the plant down, and couldn’t even remember when he must have done so. When he’d first touched her, perhaps, but his attention had been so thoroughly upon her, his warm hand caressing so softly against her cheek…
“Gods damn you, orc,” she snapped into the darkness, but it didn’t even slightly settle the chaos swarming her thoughts. And after another twitching, pulsing moment, she lurched over to her candlewood plant, yanked off a sprig of it, and dragged its sharp spine straight down her forearm.
The pain kicked and flashed, snapping white and vicious through her clamped-taut body — butcurse her, it helped. Edging away the jangling jolting unease, returning the deep breaths to her lungs.
Yes, she’d been targeted by an orc. She’d even been slightly —slightly— compromised by an orc. But all things considered, she’d still managed the situation. She’d spotted the orc’s lying, devious intent, and called him out on it, and escaped his slippery clutches.
And today — Gwyn frowned at the door — she would indeed make a much-needed visit to a locksmith, and put some proper barriers on that damned door, and the windows as well. And then she could rest easy, and sleep comfortably again, and everything would be fine. She was fighting her fate, making her own way. She was doing this.
Something warm and sticky was dripping down her palm — good gods, herblood— and she belatedly jerked toward the wash-basin, dabbing the scrape clean, wincing at the sight of the faded white scars beneath it. And sleeping was surely a lost cause at this point, so after a heavy sigh, she lit a candle, sank into her chair at the table, and pulled over her favourite reference book.
She spent the rest of the night reading about chasteberry, and making detailed notes about its care and harvesting. And as the sky gradually began to brighten, she finally replanted the chasteberry into a proper pot, furiously fighting to ignore the faint trace of the orc’s distinctive rich scent upon it, and the obvious care with which its delicate roots had been wrapped.
But the more she thrust down thoughts of the orc, the more they seemed to bubble back up again. How had he known to bring a plant as a gift — and especially one so rare and useful as this? And how had he possibly managed to acquire it, so far out of its native habitat? Surely the realm’s most prestigious herbalists wouldn’t sell to orcs, so had he somehow brought it from the south himself? Orgrownit himself?
Whatever the case, it certainly suggested some level of thought and planning on the orc’s part, which seemed at utter odds with his breezy laughter, his flippant words, his disheveled appearance. With even the way he’d so casually broken into her house, clearly knowing how to work the door, knowing Gwyn was alone. Knowing she was a herbalist. Knowing Great-Aunt Agnes…
Gwyn loudly cursed under her breath, and finally washed and dressed, and made the short walk into town. And then waited, jumpy and jittery, outside the locksmith’s closed shop, until he unlatched the door, and waved her inside.
“I need a new set of locks installed at my house,” she told him over his counter, her voice sharp. “The most secure ones you have. And some bars for my windows, as well.”
The locksmith gave her undoubtedly frantic face a curious once-over, and reached for his nearby notebook. “You’re the new midwife at Agnes’, eh?” he replied. “Welcome to town. Here, I’ll get you in for next week.”
And while Gwyn should have been thoroughly gratified by the fact that even the locksmith already knew who she was — word was spreading, as it should — all she could feel was the urgency, sparking in her hands and feet. “Nextweek?” she heard herself echo. “No. I need it now. At once.Today.”
The locksmith’s lined brow furrowed, his hand hesitating on his charcoal. “Sorry, but I’m booked solid this week,” he said. “What’s your rush? Aren’t having any trouble over there, are you?”
His gaze felt far too piercing for Gwyn’s liking, and she felt her cheeks flooding with an abrupt, unnerving heat.Any trouble. Trouble with orcs, he meant, because his wary eyes had even glanced due south, in the direction of Orc Mountain. As if that particular information might spur him to action, or help launch some kind of investigation, or perhaps even send a ravenous armed mob to riot around Gwyn’s house…
“No, no trouble at all,” she heard herself say, far too quickly. “I’m — just a little nervous, I suppose.”
And gods, why thehellhad she just said that. Why wasn’t she just telling this kind man the full truth, and welcoming the raging mob with open arms. She was finally making her own way, and she needed to stamp out the male rubbish from her life,forever.
But even as she opened her mouth to correct it —actually, an orc broke into my house last night— her throat oddly constricted, her fingernails digging into her palms. Her thoughts swarming, suddenly, with the too-vivid vision of that lean, fluid body, sprawled motionless in a pool of blood. His long limbs askew, his devious mouth permanently silenced, his laughing eyes forever gone dark and cold and empty…
“Next week it is, then,” interjected the locksmith’s satisfied voice. “Now, tell me what you need.”
Gwyn somehow managed to reply, and accordingly set up the appointment for the following week. But as she walked back into the street again, her feet felt strangely wobbly, her brain unleashing a torrent of well-warranted protests and accusations. Didn’t shewantto bar the orc from her house? Didn’t shewantto see that laughing, manipulating asshole get exactly what he deserved?
Didn’t she?
“Excuse me,” said an unfamiliar, tentative voice behind her. “Are you the new midwife?”
Gwyn gratefully turned, and found herself faced with a pretty, plump, red-cheeked woman. “I am indeed,” she replied, as steadily as she could. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
The woman stammered a flustered, incoherent-sounding reply, as she clinked what sounded like a few coins in her pocket — and thankfully Gwyn had been in this business long enough to easily discern her meaning, and flashed her a warm, reassuring smile. “I’ve certainly got just the thing,” she said. “Why don’t you come along to my place, and I’ll do it up for you?”
