Page 18 of Embers of Ruin

Beside me, Onyx lowers his spoon into his bowl with maddening calm. “Mila does water it down.”

Otto grunts. “See? Useful conversation.”

I narrow my eyes at both of them. “You are avoiding my question.”

“Absolutely,” Otto says, not even bothering to deny it. “And because I am a generous man, I’m going to do you the courtesy of pretending not to notice how offended you are.”

I open my mouth to press further, but he is already pushing back from the table with another long-suffering groan, as if his joints themselves have decided this conversation is over.

“There’s a room available down the hall,” he says, scratching at his beard while looking between the two of us with a far too mischievous glint in his eye. “Only one left, and before either of you starts complaining, I’ll have you know it’s one of my better rooms. Bed’s large enough to fit the both of you.”

I choke so violently on a sip of stew that it goes down the wrong way and leaves me coughing into my hand like a dying woman. Otto has the audacity to look delighted. Onyx, infuriatingly, remains composed.

By the time Otto finishes informing us that there is, unfortunately, only one room left in the inn, my appetite has nearly vanished out of pure irritation. Nearly. Nothing could make me lose my appetite entirely, especially not after days of surviving on half-burned game and Onyx’s increasingly offensive attempts at pretending that travel food qualifies as a meal.

“All right,” he says.

I turn toward him so fast my chair nearly tips. “All right?” I repeat between coughs, my voice coming out hoarse and scandalized. “That is your response?”

His gaze drifts toward me with insulting calm. “Would you prefer the stable?”

“That is not the point.”

“It is precisely the point.” He tears off another piece of bread as though we are discussing something utterly ordinary. “Stop acting as if you would have had finer accommodations sleeping on the forest floor.”

I stare at him, appalled that he has the audacity to be correct and even more appalled that Otto is now openly grinning at the both of us like a man watching a particularly entertaining play unfold.

“You enjoy this far too much,” I tell the innkeeper.

Otto places a hand over his heart in mock sincerity. “I haven’t had this much fun all week.”

Of course he hasn’t.

The gods, apparently, have abandoned Solaris but kept their sense of humor intact.

Otto leaves us long enough to have someone carry up hot water, and by the time I finish eating—which I do with far more concentration than grace—the room is ready. Onyx stands and gestures toward the stairs with all the solemn courtesy of a man escorting someone to their execution. I rise more slowly, every muscle in my body protesting the movement, and follow him through the inn and down a narrow hallway lit by wall sconces that throw soft amber light across uneven plaster.

The room at the end of the hall is small, but not cramped, and the first thing I notice is that someone has made an effort to make it feel welcoming. A woven rug lies across the center of the floor, its faded red pattern worn thin in places but still lovely enough to soften the rough boards beneath it. The bed—curse Otto and his amusement—is indeed large enough for two, draped in a patchwork quilt stitched from scraps of old fabric in shades of deep blue, cream, and moss green. A narrow window sits above a small washstand, its panes clouded with old glass that turns the lantern light outside into dull stars. There is a sturdy wooden chair near the hearth, a squat little chest at the foot of the bed, and iron hooks hammered into the wall for cloaks and belts and swords, because even in a village that laughs easily, no one seems foolish enough to forget what sort of world lies beyond the gates.

It isn’t beautiful in the way palaces or noble halls in old stories are supposed to be beautiful. Nothing gleams. Nothing shines. The wood is nicked, the plaster uneven, the blankets mended in more than one place. And yet every part of it feels touched by human hands. That, I am beginning to understand, might be more valuable than beauty.

My attention catches on a half-open door tucked beside the hearth. Faint steam slips through the crack and coils into the room like something holy. If I had any shame left, it vanishes at the sight of it.

“There’s the bathing chamber,” Onyx says, following my gaze.

The words have barely left his mouth before I cross the room. The bathing chamber is little more than a narrow alcove walled in by plaster and stone, but to me it may as well be a temple. A hammered copper tub sits against the far wall, deep rather than wide, already filled with steaming water that sends warmth lapping across my face the moment I step inside. A wooden stool rests beside it with a folded towel, a tiny square of soap, and a clay dish holding what looks like dried rosemary and crushed lavender someone must have thrown into the water as an unnecessary kindness. The floor is laid in worn gray stone, darkened by years of splashed water, and a small shelf has been built into the wall to hold a candle, a comb with two missing teeth, and a pitcher for rinsing. Above it all, a narrow shuttered window lets in a ribbon of cold air that keeps the room from growing unbearably warm, so the steam curls upward in silver strands instead of swallowing everything whole.

I stand there longer than I should, simply staring at it. A bath. It is humiliating how close I come to weeping over a tub of hot water.

Behind me, I hear Onyx set his sword against the wall in the main room. “Take your time,” he says, and for once there is no mockery in his voice, only a quiet understanding that makes something in my chest pull tight. “I’ll be here.”

That shouldn’t comfort me, but it does. I close the door before I can think too hard about that and set the latch into place with fingers that still feel half numb from the cold. For a moment I simply lean against the wood and listen to the muffled life of the inn beyond these walls—the distant scrape of chairs, the rise and fall of laughter, someone’s footsteps in the hallway. It sounds so ordinary that it makes me feel unsteady.

Then I begin peeling myself out of layers that have become less clothing than second skin. My cloak hits the stool first, followed by my tunic, my trousers, my boots that thud to the floor with enough mud on them to grow a garden if the gods were feeling generous. There are bruises along my legs from the saddle, a scrape at my hip I scarcely remember getting, shadows under my eyes that make me look like I belong to the same gray world we rode through to get here. I avoid looking at myself longer than necessary and lower one cautious foot into the tub. The heat is so intense that I wince immediately.

I hiss and nearly pull away, but then the warmth seeps past the ache and into the places in me that have been clenched for days, and there’s no hope of turning back after that. I sink into the water inch by inch until I am submerged to the shoulders, my hair pinned up as badly as I can manage before finally giving up and letting it down to wet it too. The first real sound I make isn’t dignified. It is some embarrassing blend of sigh and groan that would delight Onyx endlessly if he heard it.

The tiny bar of soap barely lathers, but I work it over my arms, throat, and collarbones as if I can scrub the last several days clean from my skin. Dirt clouds the water almost immediately and I try not to take that personally. By the time I run the soap through my hair, the scent of rosemary rises with the steam and reminds me of Mara’s cottage, of dried herbs and crushed leaves and the rare bits of green we treated like treasure.