Page 22 of The Silversmith

“It’s still early,” he said, turning his back to me. “You should get some more rest today.” He paused with one hand on the knob. “And if you ever feel numb again or that you’re… missing yourself, come to me.”

Go to him? Someone I hardly knew? Was he serious?

“That’s not a suggestion, Aryella,” he added tersely.

My stomach plummeted.

“How do you know my full name?” I rushed out. Phillip, my mother, Gemma, and Oliver had never called me by my full first name. They called me Ary. It had always, always been Ary. I couldn’t even recall how I knew what it was. A lingering truth from before my fall, perhaps, rattling around in my brain, waiting to fit back into place.

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “You’re my queen.” His other hand flexed at his side. “Of course I know your name.”

And with that, he left.

Tension poured out of me in a shaky sigh, pulse racing in my ears. My full name, in his voice, bowed me over, igniting something angry and foreign and relentless in my chest. Like a recurring dream I knew I’d had, but the details were… gone.

How did he know something I hadn’t thought about in ages? I hadn’t told anyone in this house that my full name was Aryella.

But it was.

Chapter seven

Smyth had told me to rest, and my body begged for it, so I rested for two more sleepless hours. Gemma’s story and the prophecy preoccupied my thoughts. When I woke, Gemma cooked the hare meat into a hearty stew and served me a heaping bowl. Smyth watched silently to ensure I ate every last drop. When I was finished, I retreated to the bedroom to rest some more. I reread a book for the tenth or twelfth time to distract myself. It kind of worked.

But I spent most of the morning staring at my pale, feeble hands. Hands that were meant to draw power from Nyrida’s gods and destroy an evil sorcerer.

Frowning at my delicate fingers, I shook my head. Unlikely.

I returned to my book and let myself escape in that fairy tale, instead.

By the time I finished reading, the fading winter sun shone through the small boxed window and signaled dinnertime was soon. I slid on my slippers and climbed into the chair under the window, shivering at the frigid air whistling through thin cracks. I absorbed the beautiful winter image. Memorized it, because soon, I would look upon that clearing for the last time.

Birch trees, tall and thin, poked out of a thick blanket of snow. Leafless and towering, they reached for the golden-red sky with their spindly fingers, their barren offshoots like strands of hair hiding the forest beyond. I could see hills from this angle on the south side of the house, and I wondered if I even possessed the strength to trek across them.

For the first time, I desired that strength. The strength to move freely, explore, to learn. So for the first time in days, maybe months, I smiled—a real smile—despite my trepidation of all that would soon uproot my life.

Caz and Ezra would return tonight, and after hours of self-imposed seclusion, I actually looked forward to being social, even if it meant braving Smyth’s consuming presence.

There would be more options for food once they arrived, but Gemma insisted on heating up the rest of the stored vegetable broth to keep it from going to waste. Caz and Ezra arrived minutes after the sun set, burdened with canvas sacks full of food and supplies. Gemma handed me a warm bowl of vegetable broth and scurried over to help unload the cargo. The bowl was still steaming, so I waited to avoid burning my tongue and watched the others.

Ezra hoisted freshly cut meat from one bag—venison, by the look of it. Caz unearthed multiple canvas bags of bread and eight ears of corn.

Smyth was shameless about watching me eat my broth, not a single ounce of regret in those burning brown eyes. When the others made jokes, he didn’t laugh, and his eyes held no joy. I wondered who or what had stolen the light right out of him.

“Here.” I finished my bowl of broth and looked up to see Smyth handing me a plate of bread and the freshly cooked venison he’d spent the last few minutes preparing. My mouth watered when I saw the steam coming off of it. “Eat.”

“I’m okay.” My stomach still growled, but I told myself I was fine. There were more of us now, and we had to make sure we didn’t run out. “We can save it for later. I finished my broth.”

“I don’t care. You’ve only had rabbit stew, vegetable broth, and water all day. Not enough. Not even close.” He grabbed a clean fork and knife from beside the sink and placed them on the table next to the plate. “You’re hungry. Eat.”

But I thought of my mother, and her insistence that I stay thin. Now, I guessed, for Elias Winterton, my… fiancé.

I sighed, preparing the lie. “Thank you, but I’m not very hungry.”

“And I’m not asking.”

My throat clenched. “Elowen told me I can’t gain weight—”

“I don’t give a shit what that insufferable cow said to you.” Smyth’s voice was calm and even, but his hands clenched into fists at his side. Like a monster ready to pounce. His anger rerouted from his fists to his eyes, which burned hot with rage.