Page 51 of Cursed Shadows 5

The youngling watches, eyes alight and sparkling blues, as I reach for the wooden sword.

I smear the droplets over the sword’s hilt. “There. Now I’ll be with you in all your battles—and you might share some of my strength.”

His face splits with a grin brighter than the stars.

I only frown in answer before I snatch the tins and push up from the road.

The mother’s stare finds mine—and hooks.

For a long moment, we just look at each other.

Then, with an incline of her head, a gesture I cannot mistake for anything but a thank you, she firms her grip on the youngling’s wrist and steers him off the path.

I watch them go.

The chime above the door rings.

“We are not open.” Eamon calls out from the tavern’s musty bar. The wood needs a wash, scrub, then a varnish, but that’s a chore for another day.

This phase, we paint. The walls, the ceiling trim, the windowsills. We paint it all a soft, faded hue of sage. Eamon’s pick, since it is his tavern.

He has a silent investor—and I suspect the identity of the anonymous funder. The other investor is me, since we used my pouch of coin to get us started at least with a dwelling, and I offer my labour.

But Eamon remains the majority owner.

So sage green it is.

I heave the tins of paint through the doors. The heft is pulling on my arms—arms that feel like melting, stretching toffee from the seaside villages.

I grunt because that’s all the greeting I can manage before I hoist the tins onto the wooden crate.

Standing on the bar, Eamon pauses. The long handle of the paintbrush he uses to reach the corners of the ceiling, it stiffens in his grip as he starts to turn a frown over his shoulder.

“The tavern is not open,” he repeats, firm. “Come back after—” His eyes flutter with a blink before his shoulders relax.

“Just me,” the words breathe out of my aching chest as I slump onto a round table. Not to be precious, but this work—this hard, gruelling labour—is getting to me.

Eamon carefully lowers the long paintbrush to the other side of the bar. I can’t see through the thick wood, but I do imagine he rests the brush-end onto the paint tray before he wipes his hands down his front. “Did you get the right shades?”

My exhausted answer comes in a faint nod.

I scoot my bottom onto the edge of the rickety table, then fall onto my back, legs dangling. “I have fans.”

“Pardon?”

“Fans. Well,afan. A youngling.”

“Oh?”

There is no pride in the way I stare at the ceiling, the wooden beams coated in dust and spiderwebs. “He brandished his sword—an impression of me.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence before doubt hitches his response, “Did you use a sword?”

“No.”

“Can you use a duster?”

My smile is wry. I throw him a side-glare, but he just winks back at me.

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