The Drowned Woods (22)

Fane said, “Wait here.” Then, before she could protest, he walked through the yard and right up to the front door. A knock, and then a young woman appeared in the doorway. Her stomach was rounded and her hair held in a loose knot.

Mer couldn’t hear the words exchanged, not at this distance, but in a few heartbeats, the woman’s expression softened. She looked at Fane, then past him toward Mer. Mer lowered her gaze, reaching to be sure her hair was in place. The last thing she needed was for someone to catch sight of the brand.

Once he finished speaking with the woman, Fane returned to Mer.

“We can sleep in their shed,” he said. “And they’ll give us something to eat.”

Mer gaped at him. “Did you threaten them?”

“No.”

“Bribe them?”

“No,” he said, seemingly torn between amusement and incredulity.

“Then how did we end up with a shed to sleep in?” she said.

He shrugged. “I asked.”

Mer squinted at Fane, trying to see him like a stranger might. “Oh. She must have thought you were one of the war refugees, with your face and all.”

He touched one of the bruises. “Your rather bedraggled appearance might have also had something to do with it.”

Mer considered a retort, then decided against it. It had been several days since she’d last bathed or combed her hair.

The young woman appeared again in the doorway, a shawl drawn across her shoulders. She gave Mer a gentle smile. “’Twon’t be the first time our shed’s been used for such a purpose,” she said. “My cousin was driven out of his home, too. Relied on the kindness of others until he could reach us.”

“Thank you,” said Mer, perhaps a little bit too stiffly. The woman glanced at her, but rather than suspicious, her eyes seemed sad.

“Were you both soldiers?” she asked.

Fane shook his head. “No, why?”

The young woman’s gaze was sharp. “You’ve got the look,” she said to Fane. “Hair shorn short, built like my man after he was taken for the armies. And she stands like a soldier.”

Unease tightened Mer’s stomach. She had slipped into her old stance without realizing it—left arm behind her back, fingers near the knives at her belt. She forced her arm to fall, her fingertips brushing her thigh.

The young woman led them to the shed, unlocking the door and apologizing for the chill. The shed was for the family’s fishing gear; Mer glimpsed nets hung on hooks, blades along the wall, and a rack of knives meant for cleaning fish. Her fingers twitched, part of her longing to pick them up and examine the blades, but she forced herself to turn and thank their host.

“You do that often?” asked Mer, once she and Fane were sitting in the shed, bowls of cawl in their laps. The meat was a little gristly, but Mer was so hungry she didn’t care. “Charm ladies into giving you shelter and supper?”

Fane tilted his head. “After I left Annwvyn, I had little coin. When I’d come upon a village, I’d find someone. I’d offer to chop firewood or do other small chores in exchange for a place to sleep.”

Mer frowned. She could not imagine sleeping near strangers. Even now, she was acutely aware of Fane’s nearness. It was one thing to sleep in the same house when Renfrew was there—for all of the tangled affection and resentment between herself and her old teacher, there was still a sense of safety. Renfrew was all deft hands and keen eyes, his every word a double meaning and vials of deadly herbs at his belt. But he would never have allowed harm to come to Mer.

But now she was alone with this young man with bruises on his knuckles and death following in his wake. He had been polite, but in her experience, the best monsters were the kind that could walk openly in daylight.

She sat in the corner of the shed, her back to the wall and her eyes on Fane. He ate half his cawl, then gave the other half to Trefor. The dog swallowed it in three gulps, licked the bowl clean, then gazed at Fane as if surely there had to be more food. The corners of Fane’s mouth curled into a fond smile. He let his hand fall between the dog’s ears, rubbing back and forth while he murmured something inaudible.

There were very few things Mer trusted in the world. Among them were her instincts, the strength of the water running beneath the ground, the capacity for human cruelty—and that a person could be judged by how they treated the powerless. She’d seen seemingly kind men kick at beggars and seemingly unkind ones stop to offer a coin and a gentle word. After all, masks were only useful when it mattered who was watching. And the powerless did not merit the facade.

Fane treated his dog with unwavering gentleness. That made her trust him far more than anything he could have said.

“Good night,” she said, and tucked her cloak in around herself.

“Good night,” Fane replied. He patted Trefor again. “I’ll try to keep him over here. Elsewise he might try to snuggle up to you.”

Trefor gave a soft woof. It sounded like admonishment.

Mer shrugged. “So long as he doesn’t snore.”

“He doesn’t, but I might.” Fane smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled and softened.

“I’m sure I’ve slept through worse,” she said, then bit her lip. He did not need to know she’d slept on a cold dungeon floor, dozing in fitful bursts because the rats would come for her. That she’d been feverish most of that time, the brand upon her cheek throbbing and unhealed.