“Roz?”
“I burned him,” I croaked urgently. “His hand.”
“With…”
Her eyes tripped down to my collar, and back up to me with a meaningful arch of her brow. I nodded. She worried at her lip for a moment. Then, eyes fixed cautiously on the cluster of Kingsmen now hauling Fischer to his feet, she reached up over the bar until her fingers found one of the little glass lanterns dotted across the counter – and slowly tilted it on its side.
Then she settled behind me once more, as though she’d never moved at all.
“He burned hisownhand,” she said quietly. “Perhaps he knocked over a lantern.”
And that might have been that.
None of the soldiers that crowded around Fischer, herding him forcefully toward the exit, took any notice of his hissed complaints, nor the blistered hand he waved frantically in my direction. My breath did come a little easier when the front door shut behind him. But then the Captain reappeared, shoving through the remaining cluster of men with another soldier in tow. He watched as the young man knelt at my side, already pulling out a jar of some strong-smelling ointment from his large leather pack. I lifted my head at the soldier’s instruction, but I barely registered the thick, cool smear of the pungent ointment over my throat. I was distracted by the look on the Captain’s face; the way his jaw ticked, how his eyes darkened to the green of shaded pines as he watched his healer paint over the reddened shape of Fischer’s palm on my throat. He was so engrossed that it took him a moment to feel the weight of my eyes, and when he did, he glanced quickly away, as though he hadn’t just spentseveral long minutes staring at me.
I couldn’t look away, though.
Not only because the healer held my jaw in place, but because I saw where the Captain’s gaze landed next. Saw him turn briskly, looking for somewhere to shift his attention – and saw that attention snag on the upturned lantern just a few inches above Sorcha’s head. He frowned at it, then glanced at the door Fischer had just been forced through. His eyes trailed, almost reluctantly, back to me, unreadable as he studied me, a little more openly now. My Flame noted his presence, and fought my hold for all it was worth, desperate to rise to his attention like the destructive little chaos demon it was turning out to be. I held my breath until my lungs burned as much as my throat, and mercifully, the Captain took a step back, face shuttering.
Then, frowning, he turned on his heel and strode away.
Chapter Six
A Blessed Yule
Yule morning at The Mage and Rose had never been such a quiet affair. Magnus had always woken with the earliest birdsong, and even in adulthood he’d kept up the lifelong tradition of bounding into my room like an overgrown puppy. Last year had been no different. With our mother and father gone, it could have been such a sombre affair – but right on cue, Magnus had burst through my door at the crack of dawn, fire arching from his fingers to light every sconce as he took his running leap upon my bed to shake me violently awake.
It was surreal, waking naturally for the first Yule of my entire life. I told myself it was nice; peaceful. I stared at the door for long enough that the sun was peering through my curtains when I finally rolled out of bed in search of new traditions.
I found Sorcha on my way to the kitchens, stepping in from the outdoors with the post in hand. Snowflakes clung to her hair and a frown to her brow as she pored over the letter at the top of the stack. But at the sight of me, she shoved the bundle of papersinto her apron and raced across the tavern to bundle me into a merry Yuletide hug.
We swapped gifts over a sleepy breakfast, more homemade lipstain for me —Strawberry Smoulder, I was told — and lace trimmed gloves for Sorcha. She cooed over them, then laughed with delight when I presented her with the sugared plums usually left out for excitable children to find on Yule morning.
“The Sugar Plum Saint must have come,” I grinned.
“I’m a grown woman,” she reminded me.
“You’re nineteen.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly,” I returned, and she rolled her eyes but threw her arms around me all the same.
She seemed more at ease, in the short time since Fischer had been marched out of our tavern and escorted to the village borders. Her contentment was the only gift that truly mattered to me; it was enough to make the already-faded bruising at my throat entirely worth it.
All in all, it was a quiet, contented Yule morning, and that was for the best. Because Yule evening was anything but.
That night, for the first time in my memory,The Mageand Roseran out of ale.
I couldn’t even spare a moment to turn; just kept pouring tankards of mead and watched from the corner of my eye as Sorcha scrawled a huge sign on a sheet of parchment, then tried to hang it from the shelf with several heavy old whiskey bottles.
NO MORE ALE
A vague grumble rippled through the crowd, but Sorcha just shrugged, stepped up beside me and started slinging pints as I poured them.
“Sorry, folks,” she called cheerily. “Mead, whiskey or wine.”
Despite their clucking, the crowd continued to press forward, some of them crushed against the bar, others waving their arms to catch mine or Sorcha’s attention. I hadn’t known Stormsbyhadso many inhabitants.
