Page 122 of Cursed Shadows 5

With the warped time in the Midlands, she is already too close to adolescence. It takes two years for a faerie hound to become fully grown, one year to become adolescent.

But that applies outside of the time warped Midlands.

So here, her growth is quick, and it shows in her moods.

Those moods cling to us both as we wander Cheapside’s lanes and rodent-infested backstreets. Hedda snaps up a couple of voders on the way—but then tosses them aside when she spots the next prey to hunt.

I don’t chide her.

I don’t have the energy to do anything at all but let my legs carry my sagged, wet weight along the streets that start to grow a tad wider, a tad cleaner. But this is still Cheapside, and so Hedda sticks close to me all the way to the—

The tavern.

My legs carried me without thought to the front doors of the tavern.

I stand in the Square, shops and stalls planted in the centre, and I just… stare.

The sign above the shop has been taken down; old and decrepit, rusted and indecipherable. Eamon must have removed it before—

My teeth bite down on the inside of my cheeks.

I shove the thought of him down to the dark parts of my mind. Then I lock him away.

But my legs don’t move. Hedda sticks to my side, looking up at me, waiting for a command.

I have nothing to give her.

I drop my gaze from the bleak spot where the sign was once bolted, and I look at the doors. Wooden, grooved, new brass handles installed by Forranach. Nothing looks out of sorts. No splintered wood or broken glass—no one appears to have broken in.

I sort of expected that.

A refurbished tavern, stocked with drink, then abandoned… It should be raided.

And yet it isn’t.

I fist my hand deep into my pocket.

The jangle of keys is quick to answer.

Stagnancy steals me for a heartbeat.

I am unmoving, fingertips on the cold bite of keys, Hedda leaning into my leg, eyes on the untouched doors of the tavern.

My throat thickens. I swallow down the swell before I fist my hand around the keys.

It’s just the washroom.

It’s just the washroom.

It isn’t a cemetery.

It isn’t a disrespect.

I can use the washroom.

And I’ll be quick, in and out.

Those thoughts linger… but they don’t reach my body. I am stagnant, still; boots planted on cobblestone.

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