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Jumping back, though not after picturing what it might be like to kiss a man such as he, I ask how he managed to get done so quickly.
“You forget my upbringing, Hilla.”
Of course.
“You’ve tied many women’s gowns.”
He neither smiles nor frowns.
“Aye.”
“Did they . . . that is to say . . . were you . . .” I stop. Tis not a question for me to ask.
“Was my first time with a woman in a whorehouse?”
My jaw drops.
“You are unlike any Elderman I’ve ever met, to say such a thing.”
Breaking eye contact, he walks toward his belongings and reaches into the leather satchel, muttering something that sounds like, “If only you knew.”
I should forget the question. ’Twas as inappropriate as his answer. But instead, I forge ahead, curious. “Aye. I suppose that’s what I asked.”
There is no suppose about the matter. Now that the words are out, I cannot take them back.
Aiken shoves whatever he pulled from his bag into a pocket and crosses toward the door.
“Come, break your fast,” he says.
Tis just as well he does not answer. Dressed, refreshed, and no longer a prisoner, I gladly follow. One more day in this town, and we will return to Breywood. My testimony will ensure Whitley is punished for his actions, and he will no longer plot against my sister. I will be married to a traitor to the crown, aye. But no longer will I be his unwilling servant.
“You are in good spirits,” he says as I cross the threshold and step into the dim hallway. Aiken locks the door behind me.
“I am pleased you believe me.”
“I told you as much last eve.”
We walk toward the stairs that lead to the hall.
“But now I know it for certain. And tomorrow, we shall depart for Breywood, and I will soon be reunited with Cettina.”
He watches me closely and then holds out a hand, indicating for me to lead us down the stairs. But just as my foot reaches the first step, wood creaking below me, his words stop me.
“I lost my innocence, there, aye. I can tell you the tale belowstairs, if you like.”
Laughing, I shake my head at his words. For a man who hardly spoke, tis strange to hear a jest from his lips, as that surely was. But when I look up at Aiken, he is neither laughing, nor even smiling.
“Who are you, Father Aiken? The silent warrior I have known or this other man so very unlike the one who looked at me just yesterday with such suspicion?”
Tis barely perceptible, but the corners of his mouth do lift, if just a bit.
“Perhaps, my lady, I am neither.”
11
Hilla
How very typical.
