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‘For a woman to hold a blade in that place, was to risk peace in our realms. The prophecy spoke, the law was changed. And thus it must remain so.’
Thea’s hands shook as she blinked back tears.
‘And thus it must remain so.’
All she wanted was to be one of them, to give what little of her life remained some purpose. To become… somethingmore.She wasn’t usually one to cry, but this… This hurt in a way she hadn’t dared to imagine.
‘Well?’ Hawthorne leaned against the shining tiled wall outside the doors, his arms folded over his chest.
She didn’t allow her tears to fall. ‘Well, what?’
‘What did they say?’ the Warsword pressed.
‘They said no,’ she told him coldly. ‘Just as you hoped.’ She made to push past him. Gods, the last thing she wanted was to be in his presence right now, to deal with his smugness, his satisfaction at her failure.
‘I see.’
‘See?You see nothing.’ All her rage surged forth, vibrating through her like a furious current, a worthy outlet in her sights. It was all Thea could do not to snatch her dagger from his belt and put it to his throat. ‘How could you possibly see? As if you’d know what this is like, what this means.’ Her dreams had been within her grasp after years of secrecy and dreaming, only to be wrenched away by some stupid prophecy and law.
‘Did they say anything else?’
Of course he wouldn’t acknowledge her fury, the injustice of it all. ‘No.’
‘Nothing?’
Thea bit back an array of profanities. ‘Only that I should stay for the feast. That I was welcome at King Artos’ table.’
Hawthorne blinked. ‘So we must find accommodations for the night.’
‘What? I’m not going. The last thing I want to do is sit and dine with a bunch of people who —’
‘If the king invites you to sit at his table, you sit at his table.’ Hawthorne’s gaze locked on hers, no compromise there.
Infuriated anew, Thea realised he was right. It would be an insult to not attend at the king’s invitation, but she looked down at her filthy appearance. ‘I can’t go like this. It’s one thing to address the king in muddied clothes, but to sit and dine with nobles when you smell like a sweaty horse…?’
‘You may have a point.’
Thea threw her hands up. ‘Well, what can I do? Do you know somewhere I can —’ she gestured down her front dramatically, words no longer powerful enough to express her anguish.
Hawthorne gave a frustrated sigh. ‘There’s a place a few streets away. You can fix yourself up there.’
In the damp washroom of a boarding house, Thea scrubbed angrily at her skin with a rough cloth. Judging from the way the matron had batted her eyelashes at Hawthorne and used any excuse to touch his muscular arms, Thea wasn’t sure she wanted to know how he’d discovered this place.
She stood naked and shivering as she sloshed the cold water over her body and washed her hair, praying that her efforts would make her even a modicum more respectable than before.
A fist pounded the door and she jumped.
‘You done in there?’ came Hawthorne’s deep voice.
‘No!’ she half-shouted, leaping to grab the threadbare towel the matron had given her to cover herself.
Acutely aware of her bare skin, Thea rushed to pull on her undergarments and trousers, only to grimace at the state of her shirt. It was grubby, to say the least… with a giant stain down the left side -when did that happen?Her spare was worse.
The door creaked open and Thea’s hands flew to cover her breasts, her heart seizing.
A tattooed hand slid between the crack, holding out a fresh, white linen shirt. ‘Here,’ said the muffled, gruff voice of the Warsword.
Trembling, from the cold or from anticipation, Thea took it, her icy fingers brushing the warmth of Hawthorne’s hand. The shock of contact sent a bolt of lightning through her and a rushof goosebumps across her bare skin. She shoved the sensation aside.
