I open my mouth. Close it.
Cohen crosses the room and drops into the chair an arm span away. I’m hit with the strangest compulsion to reach out to him.
“You might want to take it slow.” He props his elbows on his knees. His tunic pulls across shoulders that are broader and more muscular than they used to be. It’s not the only noticeable change. His beard is fuller, his voice deeper. Not that it matters. He killed my father.
“You put up quite a fight. Not that I expect less from you.” His hand strays toward my face. I sit motionless, staring at his fingers.
“No,” I croak. “Don’t—don’t touch me.”
His fingers curl into his palm, and his frown looks like disappointment as he sets his hand on his lap. I should be relieved. I am.
My life for his. The deal with Lord Jamis echoes in my head, filling me with doubt and shame. Which makes little sense, considering all the evidence.
“Let me check your head,” he says.
I set my feet on the floor. “Don’t touch me. I—I will kill you.” The words come out because I should be filled with vengeance.
He leans back in his seat. “Yeah, Dove. But not today. You’re not in any condition to do much damage to anyone. Nor will you be for another few hours. Give or take. Till then, I’ll rest easy.” He winks.
Anger fires through me. His arrogance and ease are too much. I reach for my boot where the blade is tucked against my leg and end up listing to the side.
“You’re not even standing and you’re swaying. Lie down, Dove.”
“Don’t . . . don’t tell me what to do. And don’t call me that!” My voice rises and the hammer in my skull pounds faster. I let my hair fall in my face to hide my grimace.
“Always stubborn,” he mutters.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s crouched in front of me, his hands on my arms. His touch makes me spasm. He’s too strong and manages to push me on the mattress so I’m lying down on my side.
“Please rest,” he says, softly. “At least for a few hours more. Then we’ll talk.”
To my exasperation, he’s out the door before I can form a protest, and my eyelids are drooping against my will.
I’m tired of following Papa through the market, tucking myself behind his wide back as he works his trades. It’s tough to stay hidden all the time, but Papa says it’s better for me to stay in his shadow so the traders don’t say something that will force Papa to draw his sword against one of them. It’s a relief to leave the tents of vendors when he steps into the bakery. I hope the baker is in and not his wife. She’s horrid and likes to call me names. Her husband, on the other hand, usually doesn’t notice me.
Unfortunately, Siobhan, the baker’s daughter, stands at the counter beside a tray of steaming buns. My mouth waters. She recognizes Papa and sends him to the back of the store. He flicks his hand out once. His way of telling me to stay.
“Did ya steal those off a corpse?” sneers Siobhan when we’re alone.
I resist the urge to tug my skirt down. At one time the material dragged on the ground, now it’s a hand span too short to hide the boots that are too large for my feet.
“Only a dead man would be caught in those shoes.” She laughs.
Last week I made the mistake of trying to talk to Siobhan. She was huddled in the alley behind the shop, tears coursing over her round cheeks. The kids had been teasing her, calling her stupid and piggish. I approached, only speaking two words before she wiped her face, shot me a hateful glare, and stormed off.
Her laugh is a cackle as I scramble for something to say. The right words never come.
“Don’t talk to me again,” she says. “I don’t want people thinking I’m friends with a Shaerdanian. Or worse, a traitor—whore’s daughter.”
I flinch, though I’ve heard it many times before. People said my parents’ marriage wasn’t real because they married in Shaerdan. Doesn’t matter that it was before the border closure. “Don’t call my mother that.”
“Your momma hated you so much, she’d rather follow the Archtraitor than stick around to raise you.”
“Stop!” I lunge at her, knocking her perfect baked goods to the floor.
Morning finds me balled up on the mattress with a blanket tucked around my body. I shake off the dreamt memory and push the hair from my eyes. The door swings open and Cohen walks in carrying a bowl of steaming—is that porridge?
I scramble to my feet, grateful my back pain is nearly gone.
His eyes flick from my hands to my face. “You’re feeling better.”
He sets the bowl on the table. The porridge is covered in honey and cinnamon, and—stars help me—smells divine. Stop looking at the food. Stop staring at Cohen.
“Why’d you find me in the woods? Why bring me here? What are you playing at?” The words tumble out. I don’t even care how frazzled I sound. I want answers. “W-what do you want from me?”
His mouth pulls into a tight line. Against his otherwise schooled features, it’s the only sign that he’s either displeased or he doesn’t have an answer. I’ve never been able to read him when he isn’t smiling.
“Eat,” Cohen says. “We’ll talk later.”
“No.”
After a moment of hesitation, he crosses his arms. I wait for him to explain. Instead he has questions of his own. “Did Jamis send you after me? Or Omar?”