Page 71 of Adam, Mine

Elias pressed a hand to his chest. “I . . . Frankreich . . . Italien . . . Schottland . . . Irland . . . There is a boy who will come to your door.” Then he shrugged. “Es ist eine Warnung.”

Moira, who had frozen by the fire in response to Ayan’s reaction, stepped a bit closer.

“Sklave?” she asked softly.

Elias pointed at the blue book and shrugged.

“Darf ich ihnen Zeigen?” he tried again, standing up. The couple looked at him blankly.

Elias began to peel off his jacket and Moira gasped in alarm at the sight of his harness. Ayan lunged for him, but Elias was faster. He removed the harness and slung it across the room. Tossing his weapons, his money, all his belongings with a clatter. Ayan slid to a stop, looking frantically between Elias and the pile he’d just thrown.

Elias put up his hands to show he was unarmed, heart beating wildly. Ayan stepped back, but he folded his arms in obvious threat.

Elias watched the door to make sure the child did not appear during this and continued to remove his shirt.

Like Colombo’s, Ayan’s eyes darkened at the sight of his bare chest. Like he could see the symbols as clear as if Elias had never washed the blood from his skin. But Elias covered it with a hand and shook his head, then turned to show his back.

“Jesusmarey und Jossef!” Moira cried.

Ayan clamped his palm on Elias’s shoulder and whirled him back around. He slapped Elias’s hand away from his chest.

“Whatsis?” he demanded.

Elias didn’t know how to articulate this well. He hadn’t expected Ayan to care about it so much.

“Es . . . war ein Geschenk von einem Alchemisten. Ein französischer Alchemisten . . . Alain?”

Ayan paused and his face changed dramatically to an expression Elias didn’t recognize. “Alain Cloutier?”

He looked at Moira over Elias’s shoulder. “Datpissant.” He rolled his eyes. “Busybody. Hessain forsupper. Get Isla.”

Ayan shook Elias by the shoulder again, looking at him with obvious pity, then handed him back his shirt.

“Sit.”

Elias did.

Ayan

Moira served him chicken and turnips with some kind of salty cream sauce. He ate quietly, trying not to make eye contact even though Ayan was watching him like a hawk.

Isla, Ayan’s little daughter, was babbling in English excitedly. Clearly asking her mother questions about him, which Moira answered dubiously. Her eyes still darted to his pile of knives and leather every so often.

This sort of hospitality was familiar to him. They had also had strange guests sent up to their home because the town knew they had warmth and food to share. Elias never thought he would know what it was like to be on the other side of it. How alienating it would feel to be so far from home that the sight of another family simply living made jealousy and tears stir up in your throat.

Elias swallowed hard and forced himself to eat the chicken. He couldn’t tell what the sauce was made of and hoped it wasn’t hiding sugar. He had so little pine left.

Ayan watched him, then pointed at the turnips with his spoon.

“Eet.”

Elias shook his head. Not even for politeness could he eat this vegetable.

“Letim’ alone, Ayan,” Moira murmured.

Elias did not have the words in English for this. “Das kann ich nicht essen. Zucker . . . ,” he said softly. Apologetic.

Ayan huffed angrily, then turned from him, muttering. Despair welled in Elias’s chest. He felt awful being a guest, a rude one at that. There was nothing he could do to help it.