Page 17 of The Silversmith

The corners of Gemma’s mouth twitched upward as she began to stand. For her sake, my stomach fluttered. But then she glanced at me, apprehension flickering through her expression, then at Smyth, her shoulders tensing. If she left, I’d be alone with him. While that didn’t scare me as much as it should have, I knew Gemma wouldn’t have it.

“I’ll stay.” She rested her hand on my arm and narrowed her eyes at Smyth, who regarded her dispassionately. “With Ary.”

Finn wasn’t gone for long, and when he returned with a large hare, I felt soured by shame that I’d never tried to hunt for my own food when it seemed so easy for him to do. For all of them, surely. And now, I sat at the table, useless, with a blanket wrapped around me while Gemma and Finn argued over whether or not a knife was even needed to skin the hare.

“The skin’s thin.” Gemma reached for the hare. “Just snap the ankles, grip with your fingers, and pull.”

I flinched at the visual and turned my attention away, knowing I was going to have to learn how to do things like this but deciding… not today. Any meat my mother traded for—which hadn’t been much—had already been skinned and gutted by the time it got to us. Before his death, Phillip had always taken care of hunting and preparing the animals for us. For once, I was pleased he hadn’t taught me how to do something myself. I had no desire to disassemble a living thing.

“You’ve got to give the tendons a clean cut first with a good blade.” Finn sighed and jerked the dead animal out of her reach. “Just let me do it, woman!”

Smyth stood next to the sink, thick arms folded across his chest, looking incredibly bored with their dispute. I wondered how well he could prepare an animal. Did he flinch like I would? Did nausea churn in his stomach at the thought?

Who was I kidding? That man could skin a creature in his sleep without remorse and wake up to eat a full meal afterwards.

I sat with my hands folded in my lap and stole the occasional glance at him. Each time our eyes met, I averted my attention before I had a chance to decipher his expression. But I felt him watching, time and time again.

Finn and Gemma eventually compromised: Finn cut the tendon and Gemma did the rest without a knife. I watched him watch her with quiet fascination, the curve of a smile accenting his impeccably tan face, those hazel eyes gleaming. For people who lived in the Caves, the Sinclair brothers must have spent a lot of time under the sun.

The smell of freshly ground coffee wafted over my nostrils and Smyth placed stoneware mugs on the table before us. I lifted my eyes, too grateful for the gesture to tell him I only liked the smell of coffee, not the taste. Gemma groaned and lifted her mug to her lips. The taste wasn’t wretched, and I could put up with one mug of it to avoid being rude. I moved to take a sip.

But I paused, staring at the clear, green-tinted liquid in my mug, absorbing its light, leafy scent. Not the rich, earthy scent that drifted from the mugs in both Finn and Gemma’s hands.

“You gave me tea.”

Smyth leaned up against the wall, his expression blank, waiting patiently for my elaboration.

“Everyone else has coffee, and this is tea,” I clarified.

“You don’t like coffee.” The intensity in his gaze sent a shock wave of warmth straight to my stomach. He was right. I didn’t like coffee. But even if I did, his conviction could convince me I didn’t.

“I-I…” They all watched me, including Gemma, who shrugged and mouthed “I said nothing” when she saw my inquisitive eyes. “I never told you that.”

He didn’t react. He didn’t even move, save to blink.

I took a sip, and my body relaxed when the warm, verdant sweetness touched my tongue. “Is there honey in this?”

“Yes.” He crossed his arms over his chest and took a sip out of his own mug.

“I never told you I liked honey in my tea, either.”

“But you do.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes. How’d you know?”

His thick brow lifted. “Lucky guess.”

My mother had mentioned it to Simeon, who told Smyth, I told myself. Surely my own mother cared enough to share information that might help me adjust to this change. Never mind that she’d hardly remembered my preference for green tea and honey when she lived here.

Finn and Gemma spent the afternoon telling me more about our lands and people. Most of the cities—where those deemed wealthy and influential lived—were protected by Simeon’s wards. Elias maintained a loyal network of spies throughout Nyrida who passed back information. Molochai’s army was strong, but we managed to survive.

For four hundred years, our growing army had fought off Insidions—what Molochai’s forces called themselves. In large cities like Tovick and Brinnea, and the Winterton Caves, Simeon’s wards were the strongest. Other places throughout each province, like smaller villages and camps deemed worthy of protection by Simeon, were reinforced only by our army’s physical forces.

I watched Finn make marks across the map he and Gemma had sketched. It took up the entirety of the small dining table. I tried to follow, bound by frustration that I barely knew what I was looking at.

“Most villages in this region,” he waved his hand over the north, “are untouched by Molochai, but only because they aren’t worth much. Simeon doesn’t want you stopping for very long anywhere there aren’t wards. We’ll make haste until we get to Tovick. Smyth has a friend there who can offer us shelter.”

Warrich had always been my home. I had never been to—and knew little about—any other province. My knowledge of our world was limited to what Phillip had told me or I’d read about in books. The names and climates, mostly. Southwest of Warrich was Avendrel. Tugaf—the largest, deadliest, hottest province—was far south. Phillip had told me a little about the dense foliage and mountains in Avendrel, the seafarers in rocky Wymara, but I could only imagine what it felt like to see it all for myself.