Reign of Shadows (Reign of Shadows, #1)(58)

Fowler’s promise to come back played over in my mind, offering some solace.

Despite the heated words we’d had before he left—and despite that soul-searing kiss—I’d made up my mind to go to Relhok City. Where it all began. Where I would end it. And yet that didn’t change that I wanted him safe. Before I left, I needed to know he was well.

A familiar thump sounded on the wooden deck outside Mirelya’s cottage. The flap that acted as a door shifted, a hand shoving it back. Somewhere far off a horn blew that reminded me of the one that sounded when we’d stepped off the lift the first day.

Mirelya entered and the door covering fell back in place with a slight whisper on the air. “Hello, there,” she greeted, dropping a basket on the table.

“What’s all the commotion outside?” I asked as she made her way to the table where I sat.

Despite her frail form, the chair creaked beneath her weight as she lowered down into it. “Another visitor arrived.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. Unsavory-looking sort, but they let him up seeing as he’s just one. I’m sure they’ll send him out on the boats next. They always need volunteers for that.”

Like Fowler, he was someone to be sacrificed.

I shuddered and attempted to shake off the thought.

“Don’t fret, girl. Your man is stronger than most. One look at him and you can see that.”

“He’s very strong.” I nodded in agreement, recalling the sensation of his body, muscled and honed from years of hard living. “He’ll be back.”

Sitting there, her words ran over in my mind. One look at him and you can see that. Yes, I could feel him. But I would never have a look at him. I understood the notion of beauty. Some people were more pleasing to the eye than others. Such superficiality didn’t matter to me one way or another, but I was curious at how others perceived Fowler . . . and me. Sivo and Perla only ever sang my praises, but here was a woman who had no personal stake in cosseting my feelings.

“Mirelya? Am I like other girls?”

“You mean your appearance?”

Heat crept over my face.

“You’re asking for that boy of yours?” She cackled. “You’re wanting to know how he sees you? Whether he finds you comely?”

I shook my head, feeling foolish. “N-no.”

“Don’t deny it now that you’ve put the question out there. I don’t expect you to know that you’re comely enough. Not a great beauty, mind you, but passing fair, as I expect that boy would agree from the way he stares at you. Quite free with his stares he is, knowing you can’t see him. Watches you like you’re some tasty pudding he would like to sample.”

The heat in my face turned to scalding.

“And what of him?” I asked before good sense came over me. “What is he like? I already know he’s tall and strong of form—”

“Aye, his face is fine enough to draw the female eye. Not that there are too many your age left to admire him.”

At that sobering reminder, I pressed my mouth shut. How could I worry about such trivial things when the world was what it was? When girls were being murdered because of me? When he was out there risking his life for us? When even if he did make it back, I would be leaving him?

Outside, steps approached the front of the cottage door. The leather covering rippled once from the movement. I tensed, relaxing after several moments when it became clear it was just a passerby. Mirelya had been helpful, keeping me out of sight so I didn’t rouse curiosity. But it couldn’t last forever. I was bound to come face-to-face with others again.

The chair creaked as Mirelya rose to her feet. “You should rest. I could hear you tossing all night. Take a nap. By the time you wake, midlight will have passed and Fowler will be back.”

It was tempting—the idea of closing my eyes and opening them again to find Fowler before me—but it would be futile. I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I knew he was back.

“Go on with you,” she pressed. “Have a rest.”

Deciding against arguing, I rose and slipped into the room where I had spent the night alone. Curling up on the bed, I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and waited for midlight, begging silently for it to come and then fearful that it would. That it would and he wouldn’t arrive with it.

Moments slid into long minutes. I couldn’t be certain how much time passed, but then I heard Mirelya talking to someone. I sat up with a lurch, excited with the possibility that Fowler was back.

I swung my legs over the bed, but then paused. The other voice was unmistakably male, but too reedy to belong to Fowler. Standing, I inched toward the door.

I moved to the door covering, my hand hovering in midair, some deeper sense stopping me from pushing the covering and going through.

“I don’t care who told you that. They were confused,” Mirelya was saying.

“Perhaps you’re confused, old woman.”

That voice. Anselm.

My breath locked tight in my lungs. I held myself immobile, my fingers curling into knotted, bloodless fists, my nails scoring into my palms. I recognized the voice. I’d never forget it. Not mere days after he had attacked us. Not years from now.

“I’d know if I let any strangers into my home,” Mirelya snapped, her dislike strong in her voice, but there was something else. She was speaking loudly, stalling obviously. Everyone knew she had taken me and Fowler in. Any random passerby could confirm the truth. Or he could search the cottage.