Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(36)
“No one will see us here.” His arms spread invitingly.
My entire body tingles with wanting to step forward and drop my hand in his. We should be keeping watch for Duff Baron, not dancing in a back alley. Although Kendrick, the innkeeper, said Duff Baron and his wife don’t come out until midnight.
“One dance, Dove,” Cohen says. The cottony soft touch of his words bewitches me.
I cannot say no to that. My chin dips in a reluctant nod, and suddenly the fingers of his hand are curling around my hip, and I’m twirling under his arm. He pulls me to his chest and rocks me to the side. Though I’ve never danced with a partner, Cohen guides me effortlessly around the lane. When the tune changes, we spin to the quick saw of the fiddle until I’m breathless and bursting with joy.
When I peek up at him, Cohen is staring down at me. He pulls my hand into the crook of his elbow and walks to the side of the lane. “A man should always escort the lady back to her seat,” he says.
A giggle nearly slips from my lips, which is so unlike me. “I didn’t realize you were such a gentleman.”
He grins wolfishly. “I don’t have to be if that’s what you want.”
I cannot even think of a response to Cohen’s teasing. But it does make me wonder how many other girls have fallen for his charms. Too many, I’m sure. For some reason, the thought is like a bucket of water on a flame.
“Thank you for the dance.” My words lack warmth. I pull my cap from his pocket and put it on, shoving my hair underneath it. “Now that’s out of the way, we can remember why we’re here tonight.”
Cohen’s smile drops. He doesn’t move for a moment as he looks at me, his expression morphing back into something callous and unreadable. Then he gives me a perfunctory nod and, without another word, walks to where the darkened lane meets the festival.
I watch him go, squeals and laughter filling the silence between us, and wonder how I can feel so crestfallen when the choice to end the fun was mine.
At midnight the music stops and the crowd’s raucous gaiety dims to excited whispers and anticipation held on bated breath. The gathered people part, allowing an older woman to approach the fountain. The woman’s salt-and-pepper hair is drawn into a neat bun. She pulls out a clutched fist of something from her pocket, and then soft oohs escape from the onlookers as she opens her fingers and flings a handful of seeds into the water.
The woman shuts her eyes like she’s concentrating while faces around the fountain turn awestruck. But I cannot see what they’re looking at. I lean from the shadows, stretching onto tiptoes.
Suddenly, emerald vines spring from the water, and twists of white spread into fully bloomed moonflowers. My mouth pops wide open. Another Channeler. The crowd erupts into applause.
Of the little I know about Shaerdan’s magic, I remember hearing that Channelers influence elements of nature: flame, wind, water, and land. And, of course, spirit, which the clergyman mentioned. The two women handing out jars of light must be flame Channelers; the woman from the well could influence water. But this woman, I’m not quite sure. Is she also a water Channeler? Or land?
“There he is.” Cohen points to a man who is probably ten years older than me, pulling my notice back to the reason we’re here. Duff Baron. He’s escorting the Channeler woman away from the fountain. There are too many people here. Any moment, Duff and his mother will be swallowed into the crush before we have a chance to talk to him. We cannot let that happen. Cohen agrees to cut through the throng of townspeople while I try circling the crowd.
In the shuffle, I lose sight of Cohen and Duff Baron. Chin tucked, I stick to the edge of the square, where I’m nearly unnoticeable. When Cohen doesn’t return right away, I assume he reached the man, and I wait for him. By the time Cohen comes back, a chunk of festivalgoers have left for the evening, though quite a few remain, dancing and drinking the night away.
“What did you find out?” I ask him while we walk back to the inn.
Cohen glances down at me. “He told me Enat has been in contact with someone from Malam.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t know. He was given a secret place to drop her letters. Two weeks later, he’d check again and a letter would be there, addressed to her in Celize. He never found out who she was writing to. Almost three months ago, the letters stopped.”
Papa died almost three months ago. Surely that cannot be a coincidence. Was Papa the person she was writing to? Who was she to him? It’s hard not to feel like a dog on an endless endeavor to catch his tail.
When we return to the inn, my mind is consumed with too many questions, so that the residual tension between Cohen and me is nearly forgotten. He must be in the same frame of mind because as soon as he hops into bed, he mutters, “Night, Britt,” and is asleep in moments.
I’m not disappointed. The last thing I want to discuss is our dance at the Merryluna Festival.
But I also am unable to stop thinking of his flirtatious words and wondering what he would’ve done if I’d flirted back.
Completely cocooned in warmth, I find it nearly impossible to crack my lids open. The bed is more comfortable than anything I’ve ever slept on. I yawn and rub my eyes, and—?
One of my arms is resting on Cohen’s chest while our legs twine like vines. My face is smashed into his ribs. And when I lift my head, I find a coin-size spot of drool.