Page 44 of The Shape of Silence

Silence settled between them while Morggán let her gather her thoughts, unsure how to address something so vague as what she’d said so far.

“Nothing feels familiar,” she said quietly. “Sometimes I think I should understand this world, and then I look at all of you and I know I don’t.”

Morggán frowned slightly. “This world?”

Avery pressed suddenly at her eyes with one hand. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

Her voice wavered unexpectedly then, enough that Morggán felt something tighten hard in his chest.

“It feels like everyone else was handed some information—like a script or something—and I didn’t get one. Like I woke up one day and everything had changed except me.” She laughed faintly after saying it, though the sound held no humor whatsoever. “I know how crazy that sounds.”

“Nae,” Morggán said quietly. But truthfully, he didn’t know what it sounded like. He only knew that she looked unbearably forlorn sitting there beside the fire trying to explain a sorrow she herself did not understand.

Her mouth trembled faintly then before she pressed it flat again, forcing the reaction back down with obvious effort.

She looked suddenly very vulnerable—as she’d never seemed to him before—sitting there beside the hearth fighting to hold herself together while confusion plainly gnawed at her from somewhere deep and old. He felt a chagrin rising, for he did not know how to help her. He could track armies through forests, hound the English across Scotland, thrust steel into flesh, but whatever troubled her now lay beyond the reach of any skill he possessed.

“Ye dinna sound crazy,” he said again more firmly. Morggán stared at her a long moment after that. He thought suddenly of the meadow two days past, of the wonder on her face stepping beyond the trees for the first time in years. Of the way she watched ordinary things sometimes as though seeing them from a great distance. And Christ, his chest hurt for her then. It didn’t necessarily feel like pity, but something deeper and far more difficult to name.

“I dinna ken what burdens ye carry in yer thoughts,” he admitted quietly at last. “But ye neednae carry them alone while I’m here.”

Avery’s eyes remained lowered after that, her fingers still moving absently through Charlie’s fur while the hound lay heavy and warm against her.

Morggán leaned one shoulder against the wall beside the door and watched her in silence for a moment longer. “We’ll nae remain here long,” he told her at last, supposing it was possible that simply the intrusion had upset her. “A few days at most.”

He nearly said then what had circled stubbornly through his thoughts ever since Tormod forced the matter plainly before him outside.

Ye canna remain here.

Come with me.

But even imagining the words spoken aloud, he could already picture the resistance rising immediately in her. He could picture her retreating inwardly, could picture in advance her quiet stubborn refusal.

He said nothing—if he were honest with himself, he was not prepared yet to hear her deny him.

Avery nodded once, though appeared yet stiff with frustration.

Outside, sudden laughter broke loudly somewhere among the nearer trees followed by the unmistakable smell of roasting meat drifting through the air.

Morggán glanced briefly toward the door.

“They’ve already started cooking,” he said. “Likely a kettle full of stew thick enough to stand a spoon upright in. And Fergus guards his bread like church gold.”

Avery gave a faint shake of her head before he said anything else. “No, but thank you.”

Despite himself, Morggán nearly smiled. “Ye havena heard the offer yet.”

“I can guess where you’re going,” she told him, raising her blue eyes to his once more, her gaze marginally less troubled.

“Aye, but hear it proper.” He kept his tone deliberately easy. Light. “Come eat wi’ us tonight.”

“No, but thank you,” she repeated with the same strained politeness.

Morggán watched her another moment before speaking again. “Avery, can ye tell me why ye’d refuse a hearty meal among honorable men?”

The words, when she answered, came quiet and matter-of-fact, not pitifully but merely as truth telling. “I don’t know how to...” She gestured vaguely in frustration. “Behave around that many people. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Or when to speak. Or...” She exhaled sharply through her nose. “It would be too much.”

Morggán regarded her silently for a moment before crossing the narrow space between them and lowering himself carefully onto his haunches. He took care with the movement still, though his strength had returned enough now that he no longer needed to think through every shift of his body beforehand.