Page 43 of Cursed Shadows 5

I flicker my gaze to Eamon’s sharp profile, the liquid amber of his eyes fixed on the tavern.

I watch him for only a heartbeat before I decide, “But you are considering it.”

I am not so sure Eamon hears me.

He muses, “It is not for lease. It is for sale… But I do have paths to explore.” He runs his lips together, as though he traps anymore words that might escape him.

The crinkled look I spare him ends with a grunt.

Eamon’s arm comes around my shoulders. He holds me to him. “Are we still determined to name it after you?Nari’s Tavern?” I hear the smirk in his voice, teasing me in the soothing calm of the darkness. “Or just Nari’s?”

I smile, small and tired.

My voice is a whisper, almost stolen by the serene calm of the town, now so sleepy and tender in the absence of the Sacrament and most contenders gone: “Nari’s.”

Eamon is quiet a moment. Just a moment. Then I hear the breath exhale from him, his chest deflates somewhat, relaxed.

“Nari’s,” he agrees in a whisper.

I nuzzle into him.

He holds me firm.

The rest of the Quiet, we spend on the roof, staring at the abandoned tavern in silence. Then, at the break of the Warmth, Eamon gives me a single gold piece, and we go our separate ways for a short time.

I take the satchel to the markets of Cheapside and sell what I can to the vendors, until my pocket is lined with some silver but mostly copper pieces.

Eamon sneaks off to Hemlock House to pack his things, steal some food from the kitchens, then cart it through Kithe to our new, shared dwelling.

After the markets, I stop in at Forranach’s.

I sit a while with him, share a tea, and before I leave, I drop some silver pieces into the biscuit tin. He needs it as much as Eamon and I do, since (as I learn over tea) Niamh does not live with him anymore and, it saddens me to know, he lives in this damp draughty dwelling alone, no work since his leg is gone.

I sense a lot of bitterness in him. A male who lost his leg in war—and now, festers in boredom, drink and misery.

The least I can do is pay him back for the food he spared on me. So I do, coin in a biscuit tin, before I return to my new home.

Eamon has claimed a bed by the time I get back.

He has chosen the one closest to the bedchamber door—but he doesn’t trust the sheets and blankets. They have been kicked off the foot of the narrow bed, and now he’s folded up on his side, hands flat together and tucked under his cheek, a makeshift pillow.

The only clothing he discarded for his slumber are the boots toppled over on the floorboards.

I am quiet as I sneak to the second bed, pushed against the wall. Once, like Eamon, I would have mirrored his precious behaviour and gingerly peeled the bedding off the mattress, teeth bared in disgust.

Now, I tumble onto the sheets and, drawing the coarse, scratchy blanket over me, I let slumber take me.

My sleep schedule is too out of sorts. The Quiet is the time for rest, not the first hour into the Warmth.

Yet I find it soothing, in a way.

Eamon left the paned glass window open a crack, and the gentle wafting of the Breeze is pleasant.

My head is touched to the pillow for mere moments before I’m swept to a dream of nothing, no nightmares, no pain, no joy—

Just blissful silence.

9

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