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He said no more, just leaned toward the pile of kindling and branches and began looking through it.
She felt stunned. To him, it was nothing—most likely he was simply weary of arguing with her—but to Cassia, it felt almost like…a gift.
When had she last been able to do a thing she wished, when others wished it not?
She cautioned herself against being too overwhelmed by the outlaw’s disregard for her personal safety.
He hauled his axe out of his pack, chopped off a good, thick section, and handed it over.
“First, the bark comes off,” he explained.
She nodded.
“You use the bigger blade for that.”
“Of course.”
“Hold it so,” he demonstrated, “or you’ll slice your finger off.”
She nodded again, intently focused.
“And best to hold it between your knees, not on your thigh, or I’ll be carrying you in my arms until the end of our days.”
A strange little thrill went through her.
You. My. Our.
“We can’t have that,” she said mildly.
He shifted, leaning closer, the tutor now. “See what you want to make in your mind, and then see the curves of it. Do not make the thing, make the curve. And follow the way the wood moves.”
She frowned. “Wood does not move.”
“Everything moves. Everything has contour, if you look close. There are no straight lines, and they won’t serve you here. Go with the grain. That’s the veins of the wood. Follow it. You see?” He held up his piece of wood and moved his forefinger over it.
She stared, listening to him explain how everything was alive and nothing was what it seemed. She looked up at him.
“I understand. All I need now is a knife. The big one, please.”
He met her eyes slowly. “Was this all an attempt to murder me in my sleep?”
“No.” She smiled. “I will do that while you are awake.”
That earned the little half-smile, and it was worth the effort. “As it should be, lass. You’re a warrior at heart. Here.”
He handed her his blade and reached for another from the arsenal on his body.
A warrior at heart.
She bent to the wood, her heart fluttering a strange new beat.
Chapter 22
They worked silently beside each other, slicing small bits of wood into smaller ones, and it was good.
Máel kept an eye on her, ensuring she didn’t open up any arteries. “What are you making?”
“A bandit lair,” she replied absently.
