Page 123 of Cursed Shadows 5

My fist loosens, and I release the keys before fishing my empty hand out of my pocket.

The washroom at home will suffice.

Before I can turn my back on the tavern, the roll of wooden wheels rumbles over the cobblestone.

I cut a glance down at the lane, a path too narrow for any carriage to squeeze through, and I see the wheeled chair coming out of the darkness.

Forranach’s eyes gleam on me.

My jaw tenses.

I ache to turn and run.

I have not seen Forranach—or anyone, for that matter—since Eamon died. When a knock comes at the door to my dwelling, I ignore it.

But Forranach finds me here.

His gaze pins me. His hands on the wheels jut faster; the muscles along his arms ripple with the sudden rush towards me.

I wait.

And in the time it takes for him to wheel to me, I understand: The reason the tavern hasn’t been ransacked or raided is because of him.

Forranach must have taken it upon himself to visit the tavern, perhaps look after it until I decide what to do.

I don’t even know if Icandecide anything for the tavern. Daxeel is the investor, the ownership might have fallen to him; and since I was not invited to any will reading, if there even was one, then I assume my name is not on the deed at all.

Forranach rolls to a slow stop beside me.

Hedda gallops onto his lap.

His mouth curls in disgust, not at her, but at the mud she has now smeared his trousers with.

“I have been caretaking in your absence,” Forranach says after a moment, a too-long pause of awkwardness between us, because he does not know what to say.

I have a different sort of problem.

It’s not that I don’t know what to say to others, it’s that I don’t want to speak at all.

I force an answer, my voice somewhere between a whisper, a murmur, a grunt: “Why?”

He glances at the doors of the tavern, polished black paint glossed all over the ridged wood. “Your male paid me to.”

My male…

There’s a fleeting frown creasing my brow. “Daxeel?”

His chin jerks, a curt and sharp nod.

“He is no male of mine. Not anymore.”

Forranach doesn’t give an answer.

I ask, “Why did he want a caretaker?”

He could sell it for more than it was purchased for, since we worked so hard on bringing it to a standard not often seen in Cheapside.

Forranach’s shoulders jut with a harsh shrug.

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