Page 22 of Wench

‘Mmmm.’ He strums an idle chord across the strings of his lute, the sound a teasing trill that flits between them. ‘Tall, antlers, smouldering stare. Half of Elswyth swoons at the sight; the other half scurries out of his path. It’s all quite balanced, really.’

‘He threatened me, humiliated me, and then chained me to you like some misbehaving hound!’

‘And yet,’ he says, mildly delighted, ‘you stood there and refused to cower. It was exhilarating, truly. Like watching two great beasts circle one another. By all the green gods, I thought you two were either going to devour each other or?—’

‘Finish that sentence and I’ll put that lute through your skull.’

He shrugs, unrepentant. ‘There’s more than one way to settle dominance.’

Marian makes a strangled sound, part shock, part fury. Heat leaps to her ears. ‘I would rather bathe in nettles and spend a month picking burrs out of a wolfhound’s arse.’

Allen’s eyes crinkle. ‘Colourful. You certainly have a talent for imagery.’

‘I’d rather climb into a coffin and shut the lid myself!’

‘That’s called marriage where I’m from.’ He winks, then bumps her shoulder when she fumes.

They climb a set of stairs and turn along a curving walkway that threads between trunks as wide as feasting tables. Marian can’t help but pause when they reach the top.

Sherwood spreads before them, a sea of trees drinking the last of the sun. The canopy is a rippling quilt of moss-green and loam-brown, stitched with veins of fire where lanterns sit. Smoke climbs in pale ribbons from a dozen hearths. Ladders lean into trunks where baskets glide along pulley ropes, seed and bread and bundles of dyed yarn rising like offerings to the leaves. Everything knits together, with not a nail wasted where a vine can hold.

Allen follows her gaze and smiles. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘It feels like the forest is exhaling after holding its breath all day,’ Marian murmurs, surprised at the wonder in her own voice.

‘Dusk is Sherwood’s favourite hour,’ Allen says. ‘Sun too shy to strut, and the moon not yet dressed.’

Marian forces her breath to slow. The anger still blisters, but the rhythm of Elswyth presses in. Lanterns bloom one by one, their honeyed light catching on ropes and eaves and faces that tilt upward to greet the coming night. The tree-borne walkways quiver underfoot, not with haste but with purpose.

The village draws her eye the way a hearth draws cold hands. She gives herself a count of ten to watch it, to memorize the lay of paths and platforms, the pattern of ladders and rails, the places where branches meet and make a shadowed crossing. If she must flee, she will need the map living behind her eyes.

Playful laughter rises sharp from a balcony and is answered by a deep, guttural moan that Marian can’t help but turn toward. What she sees makes her mouth fall wide.

On the balcony opposite, two fae are knotted together in a way that leaves no doubt of their intention. They are half in shadow, lamplight catching on bare shoulders and the long curve of a back, on fingers disappearing between thighs, on mouths meeting and parting without hurry. There is no attempt to hide. The world goes on around them: someone passes with a basket, glances up, smiles, and keeps walking. A child’s laugh flutters from somewhere below, oblivious.

The lovers do not pause. They are as much a part of dusk as the wind.

She jerks her gaze away, but risks another peek beneath her lashes, cheeks burning as she can’t help but watch.

Allen follows the line of her gaze, then makes a pleased little sound. ‘Ah. Evening prayers.’

‘Prayers?’Marian hisses, scandal tightening her throat.

‘Different liturgy, same devotion.’ He leans on the rail with theatrical piety. ‘Here, we don’t arrest people for worshiping with their whole bodies.’

The couple move like tide and shore: meeting, parting, returning. A palm skims a shoulder; a throat arches; breath catches and turns to a low, unhurried sound that makes heat pool in Marian’s belly.

She snaps her gaze to the rope handrail. ‘I’ll never understand you.’

‘Most of us would say the same about humans,’ Allen says mildly, plucking another idle chord. ‘Mortals seem to do everything in public, except the one thing that makes being alive worth the bother. You hide behind your clothes, your rules, your shame, building cages out of propriety and calling it civilization.’

‘There’s nothing civil about rutting in broad daylight,’ she snaps, staring straight ahead, jaw tight.

‘They’re not trying to scandalize you, Mare,’ he adds gently, resuming their walk. ‘Fae don’t confuse flesh for sin. Desire isn’t weakness; it’s hunger. And hunger is as innate as pleasure and pain alike.’

Marian’s face burns hotter. She tries to focus on her steps, on the creak of the planks beneath her boots, but her ears catch every ragged exhale from across the way. Her pulse pounds, treacherous, sordid.

Allen’s laughter is gentle and melodic. ‘Carnality is the most primal magic we wield. When the equinox nears, the body’s song swells stronger. Every pulse, every moan, every tremor – it all feeds the roots beneath us. Magic is tied to nature, and in my two hundred and twenty-two years of life, I’ve never seen anything more natural than two bodies tangled together, learning the oldest language there is.’