Reign of Shadows (Reign of Shadows, #1)(13)

I turned my attention back to Dagne. “Your friend—” I stopped short of saying leader, but the moment the word “friend” escaped I knew that didn’t fit either. “He’s good out there.”

“He doesn’t want us with him.” She said this as though it was a simple truth. “And he won’t wait for Madoc to recover.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” I winced at the lie. By his own admission, it was the truth, but a part of me believed, hoped, that he wouldn’t be so merciless as to walk out on them. Would he abandon them so carelessly? As though they were nothing to him?

She laughed harshly. “Oh, it’s the truth. You have been living in this tower a long time, haven’t you? You can rely on no one.”

Heat broke out over my face for revealing my na?veté.

“Life is unkind. That Fowler even stopped for us at all, that he didn’t kill us or hurt us . . .” She paused. “Well, that’s as generous as you can expect anyone to be.”

I didn’t want to believe that. There had to be more. People had to be . . . better. I couldn’t let her destroy my hope for more. “Where are you from?”

“It doesn’t matter. Every place is the same. Except for here. It’s nice here. Your hair . . . it’s so shiny and clean. Those ribbons are pretty.”

Reaching up, I removed a ribbon, threading it free from my hair. I offered it to her. It was a small thing to do, but it would bring her pleasure. I was certain of that.

The ribbon slipped from my grasp, and I knew she took it. “Th-thank you.”

I nodded.

She sighed. “We left our village years ago. My father, Madoc, and I. We’ve been moving ever since. Even after Papa . . .” Her voice faded.

He wasn’t with them now. That was explanation enough.

Her voice softened and I heard the whisper of her fingertips through her brother’s hair. “Sometimes we found a place that seemed safe. An abandoned cottage. A cave. Once we found an old mill. We stayed there a couple months. Others came; they took it from us. They took—they took everything—” Her voice broke a little and it was minutes before she said anything else. I didn’t know what to say. I could only imagine with a shudder what everything was to her. “I’m glad Papa wasn’t around anymore when that happened. This tower is a small slice of heaven.”

She wanted to stay here. It was obvious. But would Perla let her? Would Sivo? Their goal was to keep me alive and protect my identity. They would see keeping her and Madoc as being at odds with that goal.

“Perhaps Fowler will wait,” I suggested, even knowing in my gut that he wouldn’t.

She released a laugh that twisted into a sob. “No. But don’t worry. I don’t expect you to let us stay here. I don’t expect anything from anyone. We keep going, right? That’s the only thing to do.”

I nodded. Keep going. Except for me. I had to stay put.

Her words, Madoc thrashing on the bed, the coppery tang of his blood—all of it was too much, too ripe in my nose. Dagne’s tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks, flavoring the air with salt.

With a murmured good-bye, I moved to the doorway and passed through it, anxious to get away.

I occupied myself in the kitchen, preparing a tray for Sivo to bring to Madoc and Dagne. Perla returned to the room. She would see to the needs of our visitors—and likely make certain that they didn’t get any ideas about staying any longer than necessary.

After I made the tray, I took up the knitting—a task I loathed, but I needed to keep my hands busy. My fingers moved deftly with needle and thread through the supple leather, darning the hole in Sivo’s jacket. I tried not to concentrate on the sounds floating from my bedchamber, but my ears were too keen to shut off. At one point Fowler emerged from the other chamber to rejoin Dagne and Madoc without a word to me.

Finished with the jacket, I folded it across the basket and started preparing dinner. Perla had already cut up some vegetables, so I finished what was left, cutting them on the wood table and tossing the modest amount into a pot.

Vegetables were few and far between. We’d rigged a garden on top of the tower. Sivo worked on it constantly, trying to encourage what he could to grow with only the paltry sunlight offered during midlight. I often joined him. It was outdoors, after all, and it won out over inside chores.

I liked standing near the edge with my shoulders back, my fingers dusted with soil. I would lift my face to the wind and inhale the loamy musk of the Outside as Sivo worked, stabbing at the ground, cursing his undernourished greens, radishes, and beets. Occasionally peas would flourish, and that was a good day when we would actually have pea soup. Perla would make it with bits of rabbit meat and Sivo swore it was nearly as tasty as when his mother had made it with ham.

I’d never tasted ham. Boars had not lasted long after the eclipse. They didn’t move fast enough to avoid the dwellers.

Sivo sat at the table, the smooth swishing sound of him sharpening knives a familiar rhythm as I placed the lid back on the pot over the hearth and then moved to slice the loaf of bread baked yesterday.

The creak in the floor signaled Perla’s approach. I knew her tread well, the length of time that stretched between each steady step. Sighing, she set down the basket full of soiled bedding and rags she used to tend to Madoc. She moved to the washstand. The gentle splashing of water filled the room. After she finished, Sivo collected the basin and dumped it out the window, returning within moments.