Brightly Woven(32)

I knotted, took up a different shade of yellow, began a new row and didn’t stop until I felt a hand clasp my shoulder, breaking the spell the loom had cast over me.

North leaned forward to take a closer look at my work but didn’t lift his hand.

“What are you doing up?” he whispered.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?” he asked. “Was your bed too uncomfortable? I told you to take that extra blanket.”

“It was a little cold,” I admitted.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” he asked loudly, then dropped his voice. “You should have woken me up! We’re up in the mountains now—I forget you’re not used to colder weather.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh yes, I’m going to freeze to death while sleeping in front of a fire and under a hundred pounds of blankets. I said I was a little cold!”

“Do you want me to relight the fire for you?”

“No, I want to know where you’re going,” I said.

He looked pleased.

“I was going to put protective wards around the village,” he said.

I finished my row and stood.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Coming with you, of course,” I said.

“It’s freezing out there,” he protested.

“I’ll bring a blanket.”

“Why the sudden interest in my work?”

“It’s not that sudden. Why the reluctance to let me come?”

North and I stared at each other, waiting for the other to back down. Finally, North chuckled. “I’ll wait outside for you. Wear something warm, all right?”

The problem was that I didn’t have anything particularly warm to wear, just a thin shawl. I did the best I could, layering my stockings and underskirts. I was sorely tempted to crawl back into the little warmth my bed provided.

Outside, North was sitting on the cabin’s small stoop, his head tilted up at the remaining stars. The air had a strange scent, crisp and fresh, but…cold. It bit at my nostrils and the tip of my nose. The scent was unlike that of desert rain; it was unique and telling.

“It smells like it’s going to snow,” North said, as if reading my thoughts.

“Snow?” I gasped. “Do you think—? I mean, do you believe it’s really going to snow? Is this what snow smells like?”

North looked at me in pure amazement.

“Right…,” he said. “Right, desert. No snow.”

I felt childish, as if my excitement had somehow betrayed me.

“Well, I do hope it snows for your sake!” North said. We both rose to our feet, but North’s hand caught me and held me back. He unknotted his cloaks, pulling the crimson red material from the pile. I thought for a moment he intended to create one of his balls of light, but instead the cloak fluttered down onto my shoulders. He stuck the tip of his tongue out of the side of his mouth as he tied it securely around my neck.

“There!” he said. “We’re ready to go. Is that a little warmer?”

It felt like heaven, actually. I was warmed down to my very core.

“Don’t you need this?” I asked, feeling a little bit guilty. He secured the rest of the cloaks back in place before taking my hand.

“No. Besides, it suits you.”

“Red and red?” I sighed.

He winked. “My favorite color.”

We followed the short path from Lady Aphra’s cottage to the main village below. The thatched roofs were uneven from our vantage point, each small cabin seemingly built on its own hill in the valley. A small river ran along the far edge of the village, catching the early-morning light. Mist rolled off the mountain’s tree-lined slopes like a swirling light stream.

“It’s so quiet and peaceful,” I said.

“Just wait until everyone knows we’re here,” North said, laughing. “You’ll be singing a different song then.”

Rather ungracefully, North scaled the fence surrounding one of the small homes. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and buried it at the foot of their stoop.

“What are you doing?” I asked. He handed me a slip of paper over the fence before bending down to bury another one. Written across the thick paper were symbols I didn’t recognize.

“These should ward off anyone with ill intent,” he said. “Including our friend Dorwan.”

When I leaned over to get a better look, my hand slid against a sharp edge of the fence. I sucked in a quick breath, pulling it away. North snatched up my hand, a strange expression transforming his face as he watched the blood well up along the cut. He didn’t move, but held my hand firmly in his own.

“North?”

He started slightly. “Careful, careful,” he mumbled. He pulled a purple handkerchief from his bag. It was embroidered with his initials and the crest of Palmarta. He held it there until the bleeding was staunched, and only then did he pull away.

“I’ll wash it,” I promised, but he tucked it into the pocket of his trousers before I had the chance to take it back.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, looking at the ground. “Hard to believe, I know, but there was a time in my life when I had to do my own washing.”

We moved down the main row of cottages. At each stoop, he would stop, dig a small hole, and bury the paper. After the fourth cottage, I realized he was mumbling to himself under his breath—something that sounded vaguely like a prayer. I added my own, rubbing the frozen metal of my necklace between my palms.