Page 9 of The Demon Kept Me

I look up before I can stop myself.

She's wiped her hands on her apron and squared her shoulders the way she does before she says something she's decided on, chin lifted, hazel eyes steady on the merchant's face. Flour dusts the loose curls escaping her braid, and there's a smudge of it along her jaw she hasn't noticed.

"I've got real work here," she goes on. "Work that matters. The mill feeds half the valley through the cold, and there's more of it than one person can manage alone. I'm needed here. Riverhold's got plenty of hands already, I'd wager."

The merchant blinks, plainly unused to being turned down, and glances between us like he's recalculating a sum that came out wrong. "You're certain. Winter in a place like this —"

"I'm certain." She smiles, easy and final. "Safe travels to you, though. The road's turning bad past the bridge."

He recovers his manners, tips his head, and goes back to his wagons muttering something about the strange choices of surface folk. Within the hour all three carts have rolled off toward the east, and the yard is quiet again but for the wheel and the river.

"You could have gone," I say, when the wheels have faded from hearing. I don't mean to say it at all. It arrives without my permission.

Wren looks over from the scale, where she's already returned to weighing the morning's sacks as though she hasn't just rearranged something fundamental in my chest. "I know."

"It was a good offer. A better winter than this one."

"Maybe." She sets the weight on the balance and watches the needle. "But I've had plenty of winters spent going somewhere. I've never once had one worth staying for." She glances up at me, and there's nothing performed in it, no flattery she's angling to trade on. "This is the first place that ever felt like it might miss me if I left. I'm not in a hurry to give that up for a warm inn in a town I've never seen."

I have known exactly what to expect from people. Fear, mostly. Caution, if I was fortunate. The transactional civility of those who need the mill and tolerate the demon who runs it as the price of their flour. I built my whole exile on the certainty that nothing here was mine to keep, and I made peace with it the only way a Volvath knows how — by expecting nothing and enduring the rest with dignity.

I did not budget for this. For a woman who could walk out toward a softer life and chooses, instead, the flour dust and the cold and me.

"You're a poor negotiator," I tell her, because I don't trust my voice with anything truer. "You should have used the offer to bargain for higher wages."

She laughs, that bright unguarded sound that still catches me off my footing every time. "Are you offering higher wages?"

"I'm offering to consider it."

"Then I'll consider being flattered." She hauls the next sack onto the scale, and the matter is closed as far as she's concerned. And I am left standing in the middle of my own mill, and I realize, with a strange jolt that has little to do with surprise, that I can feel it.

The binding.

I've carried the infernal leash in my chest for so long that I've stopped noticing it the way you stop noticing your own heartbeat. But now, standing in the yard with Wren's laughter still hanging in the air, I feel a tremor run through it — not pain, not loosening, but something different. A shift, almost imperceptible, like the faintest change in pressure before a storm breaks. I press a hand to my chest, frowning.

"Malvek?" Wren has noticed my stillness. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." The word comes out rougher than she deserves. "Just — thinking."

It's nothing. It must be nothing. The leash feels the same. The boundary marker will still stop me in my tracks. Whatever tiny tremor I felt, it's fatigue, imagination, the residue of hope I have no right to carry.

I'm closing the sluice for the night, working the gate down against the low autumn current, when the mechanism fights me. It shouldn't. I greased the gears myself not three days past. But the gate jams halfway, and when I crouch to find the cause, I feel it before I see it — the retaining pin sheared clean through, and beside it, the timber of the frame scored with the same narrow, deliberate gouges I found on the broken millstone.

"Wren." I keep my voice level, but she's learned to read me by now, and she's at my side before I've finished saying her name.

"The gate?" She crouches beside me, following my claw to the sheared pin. Her breath goes short. "That's not wear."

"No." I run my thumb along the cut. Fresh. Sometime in the last day, while the merchants' wagons filled the yard with noise enough to cover a man crossing to the water's edge. "If this had given during a full flood, the gate would have torn loose and taken half the works with it. Whoever did this is patient. And they know the mill better than they should."

She's quiet a moment, and I can see her thinking it through with that careful, sorting attention she gives everything. "The millstone. Now this. It's the same hand."

"The same hand," I agree.

I straighten and look out at the river running black in the failing light, at the village huddled beyond it with its dozen chimneys smoking against the cold. Somewhere out there is a person methodically dismantling the only thing standing between Ashbrook and a starving winter, and doing it slowly enough that a cursed demon takes the blame for every fracture.

My pride tells me to shoulder this the way I've shouldered everything else. Alone. Silently.

But Wren is already looking at me with that stubborn set to her jaw, and I know before she opens her mouth that she has no intention of letting me.