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I watched her disappear into the narrow side room where her bed was tucked near the back of the fireplace. There the bricks radiated heat into the small space for most of the night. My bed, a sleeping cabinet built into the wall next to the fireplace, was barely long enough for me to stretch out on, but the sliding doors contained the heat of the bedwarmer’s coals for most of the night, which helped keep the icy winter chill at bay. Even now in spring, it blocked the drafts.

Washing my mug in the leftover water from Mother’s cleaning, I dried it and set it on the shelf next to our other crockery: a few bowls, plates, and mugs. Nothing fancy, but enough to serve their purpose.

Emptying the dirty water, I began my nighttime chores, counting the animals to make sure they had all returned home, securing the shed where they all slept, and clearing away the scraps from the carpentry project I'd been working on that morning.

We needed another shelf for books. Our collection continued to grow, not that my mother cared. She didn’t fully appreciate the value of the few volumes on human history and geography I had purchased from traveling merchants.

My tasks complete, I fetched my latest purchase, a large tome on military campaigns, and retired to bed to read before sleep. Avoiding the risks of candlelight, I doused all flames except the fire in the fireplace. Using a spell my mother had taught me when I was a young man, I produced a ball of magic that floated above my head at exactly the right angle and settled into bed to read.

Rue

Kent became my extra shadow. Unlike Yurtin, he was a welcome presence at my back over the next few weeks.

Accompanying me on my walk from home to work each morning as the sun approached its pinnacle, he talked about the contents of his latest reading session or asked me questions about my life, not that my past was particularly interesting. I was a foundling, a common enough status for the area.

If a child managed to enjoy both parents their whole childhood, it was unusual. Almost everyone living this close to the fae had lost one parent or both to the Wild Hunts. Or their parents or siblings had disappeared, been cursed, or died from the heavy physical toll of trying to build a life on the edge of the most dangerous region on the continent of Reverie. The Wood sheltered a variety of magical creatures, most of whom saw humans as prey.

True, not many foundlings could claim a magical heritage. The fae vigilantly maintained their borders and very few of their outcasts lingered so close to the border. Kent’s mother was an exception. No one had been actively pursuing her when she escaped, but she had a magical mark on her that would alert bounty hunters of her presence the moment she stepped over the border between fae and human lands.

On our walks home from work, we were both quieter, but strangely it didn’t make the journey awkward. Quite the contrary. We enjoyed companionable silence interrupted by quiet observations of the wildlife around us or the surroundings we passed. I frequently wished that I could’ve enjoyed Kent’s companionship without having to tolerate Yurtin’s vileness.

Yurtin frequented the tavern thrice a week. Despite my cool reception of his attention and Kent’s vigilant escort home each night, the foolish man appeared determined to get my attention. Sitting alone in the corner opposite Kent’s usual spot, he requested me as his server each time each time he visited the tavern. Master Hobb didn’t allow it, but at least once a week, if the tavern keeper wasn’t around, Yurtin insisted that I serve him.

I dreaded those nights.

A month after our first encounter, Yurtin arrived in an exceptionally good mood. But instead of calming his usual aura of danger, his cheerfulness seemed to increase it.

“Yurtin for you,” Misha announced as she approached the table I was scrubbing. “He has drunk two ciders and is ready for another.”

I glanced across the room. Based on the extra focus Yurtin was devoting to lifting his half-full mug to his mouth, I suspected he had imbibed in something stronger than cider before arriving at the tavern.

“Master Hobb is here,” I protested.

Misha snorted. “The honorable Master Hobb just left for the night, and I have seniority. You will serve Yurtin.” With an extra toss of her hair, she headed toward the kitchen door, slipping something into the pocket beneath her apron.

I risked another glance in Yurtin’s direction and flinched at the red glow coming from him. Even without the aura I could see around him, any observer could tell he was in a particularly confident mood, sitting in his chair like a king with his chest puffed out and bored pride written on his face. Neither bode well for me.

Straightening, I stole a look at the opposite corner. The glint of the light in Kent’s eyes beneath the darkness of his hood reassured me he had probably observed all that I had.

Kent’s height and breadth intimidated most people into giving him wide berth, not to mention the general aura of power that emanated from him. And when that didn’t work, he could always use physical force. I preferred Kent at my back rather than a man like Yurtin any day.

Reluctantly, I approached Yurtin’s table.

“You best treat me right, my Ruly girl. I earned a bit of money on a race today, and if you act sweet, I might be in the mood to lavish a bit of my riches on you.” Yurtin looked me up and down with a calculating grin.

“Betting on races isn’t earning money,” I pointed out as I set his third cider down in front of him. “Do you wish to order a meal?”

Yurtin’s eyes narrowed. “Assessing odds takes skill, my darling.”

“If you don’t wish to order, I will leave you.” I reached for the empty mug that had held his previous drink. My fingers caught the top of the mug, but before I could pull it closer, he slapped his palm over my hand and held it in place.

Twisted, dark images flooded my mind’s eye. Sick glee at another’s pain washed over me. I froze in horror as my mind flinched away from the visions. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t avoid them.

Yurtin leaned close for a moment, panting. An overwhelming sense of wrongness washed over me, and it took every bit of my self-preservation not to recoil away from him. Unaware of our connection, he whispered, “How can I hunger for food while you are near?”

Panic gripped me. I released my hold on the cup, pulling my hand free with a jerk that sent the mug clattering across the tabletop. Hastily retreating a few steps, I bumped into Misha as she exited the kitchen with her arms full of food.

“Watch it!” she yelled, swinging the tray around and barely juggling it back into balance. “Don’t be such a fumble-foot. Mind your surroundings.”