He stood at the entrance to the Misnich Inn and squinted at the deep-blue blur circling the slopes of Mount Vengeance.
Then he realized what it was, and that it was coming for him.
Yet it did not occur to him to retreat to the inn. Instead, he somehow thought he could outrun the beast. Instincts from his grandmother’s line, perhaps. But of course it was not long before he felt the enormous presence above him. His best effort was not enough; he was soon snatched up in its claws. He yelped as darkness and a strange warmth enveloped him—
And then something curious happened. When he was scooped within its claws, held close to its body, he felt…safe. It was not the relief of the chase being over and the knowledge of a swift death that calmed him. No, it was an overwhelming feeling of belonging that washed over him.
Almost immediately, the dragon let go again and Ainsworth landed on his feet. And despite the comfort its touch had imparted, his instincts had him running away again. But he was lost, unsure what direction to go, not knowing if he even wished to escape. It caught him again, then let go, over and over, and the ensuing turmoil of emotions that played out left him drained. Finally, once thedragon had released him for a fifth time, he cried to the skies: “What do you want from me?”
The dragon soared overhead, not snatching him up this time, revealing a shimmering underbelly.
What doyouwant?
The voice echoed through his very being—the words unspoken physically but very much heard. He felt that he knew that voice, but it was also ethereal and unlike anything he had ever heard before.
Ainsworth woke then, shaking and more exhausted than he had been before he went to sleep. The gray light of dawn was creeping through the windows, so Ainsworth resigned himself to getting up for the day. As he got dressed, with Enach stirring in the bed across from him, he could still hear the dragon’s voice reverberating through his mind, and he ran the question over and over in his head.
What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?
He was still pondering that question when the time finally came to depart the Misnich Inn. How many guests had he seen stand at Honey’s reception, turning away from their quest? And now he was here doing the same thing. And yet—
What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?
He did not know. Yet it occasionally felt like those words stopped his legs from taking another step, and had him almost reaching for Enach to tell him:No,I do not want this.At other moments, he was filled with a confidence in his decision—the call of Hinslyth, the home he had made for himself, beckoning him.
He had to go back. He had to go home.
All the staff but Bren came to say farewell, Ruraidh scuttling off as soon as he gave Ainsworth a quick hug, sparing a fearful glance toward Enach before he returned to his duties. Ainsworth had tried to leave a generous tip for Ruraidh on the table in his room, but Enach had preventedit.
Honey was last to see them off, clutching Ainsworth’s smaller pack that he had taken on his journey with Ashe. “You left a few things in the common room, including your small pocketbook, andI’ve also put a few of the diaries in here from the archive. In case you need them,” she said, pressing the pack into his hands. Enach’s nose seemed to wrinkle at the smell; it was a little worse for wear after days of rain and, of course, being dropped in mud and blood during that frantic spell with the gnycht.
“And also…” She disappeared briefly as she ducked beneath the counter. When she arose, she held a woolen bundle in her arms. “I made you this. I finished it last night—I thought you should have it before you leave. Hinslyth sounds quite chilly, from what you’ve said.”
Ainsworth was speechless as she walked around the counter, removing that barrier between them. He was silent still as she looped the scarf—a shade ridiculously close to the Skarrow Library robes—around his neck, leaning in as if about to whisper in his ear as she didso.
His heart stopped. Was she going to say something?
Ask me to stay,he thought desperately. He did not think he’d be able to resist such a request.
For the briefest of moments, she hesitated, and Ainsworth closed his eyes as he felt her breath against his ear. But, as if she thought better of it, she instead placed a light kiss on his cheek and muttered a quick “Good luck, Ains,” as though that was what she’d intended all along.
His mouth had gone so dry he feared he could not speak. “Th-thank you, Honey. This is— This is beautiful,” he said, clutching one end of the scarf.
“We really should be going, Ains. Settle the bill, will you?” Enach said, doing little to hide the irritation in his voice. He then walked out the door, waiting outside for Ainsworth to settleup.
As Honey returned the grant money he had paid up front for the following moon’s turn, she whispered softly: “Is this what you want, Ainsworth?”
It was too much. The effect of her words was somehow dizzying, as though she had breathed an enchantment over him. Ainsworthdropped the bag on the table, coins from the top of the pile bouncing out onto the countertop with a clatter.
“Ainsworth!”
“I’m fine, Honey,” he muttered, leaning on the reception desk with one hand for support, the other still clutching his pack. Quiddle came over and took the latter from him while Honey, hesitating only a moment, placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“What’s the holdup?” Enach called from outside.
“Ainsworth is feeling a bit unwell,” Alvea shouted, in the process of dragging over a chair.
“It’s because you insisted on leaving before breakfast,” Ashe snapped at Enach as he walked back through the door. “He still isn’t right after his injury.”
