Page 41 of Cursed Shadows 5

“I love it.”

Eamon turns his chin to look at me. His brow is arched so high that one might convince me there’s a thread needled through it, then lifted.

“Love?” he echoes the strong sentiment, and it takes me a moment too long to realize—he tries to figure out if I lie or not.

There is no tingle on my tongue, no burn in my throat, no itch of my insides. I don’t think it’s a lie.

I love this horrible little dwelling, because…

Because…

I don’t know.

Is it simply that it will be mine? With Eamon, this will be my new home, and that is enough to stir such fondness in me?

Maybe I’m so used to a home that’s damp and falling into disrepair that I don’t mind all the blemishes of this one. Or is itthis, that—as I look out the black paned window—I have the most wonderful view of Kithe?

From this very window, I can see so much. The stone streets of Cheapside, the slanted and bloated buildings sinking with the moving earth, the Square just up the way; and way ahead, where the ruins and rubble of what was once Comlar are sheathed in thick darkness, I can faintly make out a fire that devours the tower I once loved, the fire that everyone has ignored because the magick of the dead iilra contains it to the debris, so said Niamh, and somewhere near those angry flames is that eternal tornado of darkness powering the skies.

I lean my temple on Eamon’s arm.

The hardness of his natural muscles isn’t exactly comfortable, but the warmth of him, the soothing swell of his familiarity, it’s all I need.

I smile at the murky windowpanes that I’m sure will need a good scrub, and I should learn how to do that if I’m to take on the duties the landlord demands of us.

Eamon takes such risks for me.

It would be too easy for him to return to Hemlock House. His family would welcome him, the door would open, his bedchamber ready, and the slaves to dote on him.

He could go back to Licht, now that Lord Braxis is dead. He could return home to his village in the Light Court. He could return to his work as a recruiter. He could return to Hemlock House.

But Eamon chose me.

He chose poverty.

The scent of the bakery below kicks up through the air. I decide with the scent of sweet bread wafting up through the cracks and gaps of the floorboards, that I might see my tummy widen some, if we have the coin to spare.

And yet, it remains true…

“I love it,” I repeat with a firm nod.

Eamon presses his mouth to the crown of my head. No kiss comes, it’s a mere gesture, a moment.

I let my eyes shut on the comfort he offers me.

Eamon draws away from me with a retreating step, and he calls out to the landlord, “We’ll take it.”

His response is instant, as though he was waiting, chewing on these words, watching us too closely with too much suspicion: “Month upfront.”

I glower.

Eamon reaches into the pocket of his breeches. He draws out the pouch and, as I wander towards the landlord still in the doorway like an impatient, lingering smell, Eamon is one step behind me.

He counts out the full month’s amount. A shilling, one silver, and a dozen copper nuggets.

He drops the coin into the landlord’s clammy hand.

He closes his fist around the payment, then tosses a key at me.

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