Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Georgos casts his eye over us. He seems to sense the waves of pain pulsing from Quin; his gaze drops to my hands, one of which is supporting Quin’s waist, the other rubbing his swollen belly. “She’s not your wife. You’d be wearing rings.” He starts to move on. “Consider this your fate.”
Quin grips my wrist that’s around his waist as if to say forget it, but I have no other way to get us to town without causing him unbearable pain. “Wait—”
The farmer pauses.
“We’re from the south, we don’t use rings—we exchange tokens.” Quin keeps his head bowed but turns to me, the heat of his gaze tingling on my profile.
I lift the silver clasp on my cloak for him to see. “Inscribed on the back by Sacran Kyrillos himself.” The farmer’s eyes widen, clearly impressed.
“And hers?” he points a finger at Quin.
I catch my breath, hesitate. What could—
Quin lifts one of his delicately gloved hands and pulls out his flutette. My grip tightens on his waist and slinky shivers scuttle through me. I raise my chin and meet the farmer’s eyes. “I exhausted all my magic making this token.”
“Give me your tokens and I’ll take you.”
I stomp forward, kicking up gravel. “You’re out of your mind. It’s just a ride.”
“Nothing free. One token.”
Quin strokes his fingers along my wrist: calm. Calm? It’s a ten-minute ride in the direction he’s headed anyway. “I’d rather carry my wife than let you touch our tokens.”
“Suit yourself.”
Quin clears his throat demurely and I throw up a frustrated hand. “I don’t care we’re being chased by vespertines. Romantic principles first!”
The cart is moving; I chase after it, Quin wincing along. “Wait, wait.”
The farmer stops. He holds out a hand for one of our tokens and I’m torn between a snarl and the urge to hurry Quin onto the wagon. I dip my finger into my belt and extract Nicostratus’s golden feather.
Quin hisses, “That’s your real—”
I grip him and he silences. The golden feather falls from my fingers to the man’s palm. “I will buy this back from you later.”
The farmer’s eyes light at the sight of gold, calculating how much I’ll buy it back for, and he cheerfully agrees.
A pang of guilt twists in my stomach as the feather disappears into his belt. That feather is special, a symbol of Nicostratus’s affection. It was too easy to hand over. Quin’s reassuring squeeze does little to ease the twisting. I can’t shake the feeling I’ve just done something I can’t take back . . .
Quin clasps my hand and urges me into the cart, atop the wood. Absentmindedly, I pat the bump of our make-believe child while the farmer whistles all the way to town.
I’ll get the feather back. I will. I have to.
As we near the town, I notice how the villagers’ eyes dart to the dispensary before quickly looking away, their faces pinched with worry. A woman clutches a small pouch of herbs tightly to her chest, glancing over her shoulder as she hurries past. Something feels . . . off.
But the way Quin keeps looking at me is more off.
“What?” I finally say after we’re dropped outside the inn.
“Why?” Quin asks.
“It was the only option.”
“You could have given him your clasp.”
I grit my teeth. “You told me never to give it away. Besides, it would’ve alerted him to our act.”
“He would’ve only assumed we were desperate.”
A flare of frustration has me close to letting Quin hobble inside on his own. “What if they had been our real love tokens? Just hand them over? No way.”
Quin studies me, and I growl, “If you hadn’t left without me . . .”
“Think that all the way through, Cael.”
If he hadn’t left without me, we’d both have been captured. Myself, possibly killed in the ambush. No way could I duck all those whips.
I deliberate on this as I take him inside and lead him to my room. When he’s stripped out of his disguise and is resting on a stool, I quietly take off his boots and infuse strong pain relief through his acupoints.
I briefly close my eyes. ‘You will drag me down.’ He hurt me so I’d want to leave.
I set down his foot gently.
He reads my face, every inch of it, and his jaw twitches. “Seeing you and those vespertines . . .” He huffs out a sudden laugh. “But what was I worrying about? You are phenomenally smart—” I preen, and he glowers “—at weaselling your way out of trouble.”
“You—” I flick his thigh all the way to his hip.
He captures my hand. “You saved me. I owe you.”
I slip my hand out from under his and stand. “Owe me so much, you’ll never push me away again.”
I leave him contemplating that and return with food and drink. I make him eat every crumb and send him off to bathe. Something perhaps I ought to do too.