Page 72 of Cursed Shadows 5

My smile fades but does not disappear entirely.

I firm my embrace around her.

And I find I hold her the rest of the Quiet.

I carry her as I put away the food and hang the empty netted bags on the hooks by the door; I hold her as I shimmy out of my grotesque overalls and kick off my boots before I shimmy into a cotton set and climb into my bed; and I cuddle her for my full sleep while Eamon is gone to Hemlock House—and he doesn’t return until the Warmth inches too close.

I stir as he sneaks into the bedchamber. I hear him pause by the doorway, and I don’t need to open my eyes to know he is startled by the sleeping hound in my arms. But after a moment, he dismisses the matter for bed—fully clothed.

15

††††††

At the foot of the bed, a rumble disturbs my rest. Vibrations thrumming against the arches of my feet.

My face wrinkles into a scowl buried in a thin, stale pillow. I blink against the pilled cotton cover of the pillow, a fabric that might have been nice about a century ago. No matter how many washes, scrubs, soaps, it feels like it is still dirty somehow.

Doesn’t help that a pool of drool has soaked the pillow and been pressed against my chin and cheek so long that a rash is prickling at my flesh.

I forget the pillow when another rumble thrums against my feet—no,onmy feet.

Face-down, arms splayed, my feet are pinned to the flimsy mattress, the kind meant for the lowest of slaves, and it takes my sleepy mind a moment to realise that my new faerie hound pup has curled up there, curved against the arches of my soles—and she is growling.

A nasaled sound comes from me before, pushing my front up on my elbows, I contort around to look down at the pup.

I expect to see her sleeping, lost in dreams, as she often is when she growls. At least, in the few phases I’ve been her new mother, that is one of the things I have learned about her.

Instead, I find that not only is she awake, her emerald eyes fixed on the door, but her fur is raised, her tail stiff, and her ears perched.

My frown runs over the ajar door, cracked open a couple of inches. A wedge of faint light stretches over the dusty carpet. I watch it for a beat, focused, listening.

I hear nothing but the faintest, distant clink of fireflies hitting their glass domes over and over.

I shift my gaze to the other bed.

Covers rumpled and toppled over the side, a divot in the pillow where Eamon’s head should be. But he isn’t there.

With another glance at Hedda and her heckled fur, I start the slow, sluggish process of contorting my body around under the scratchy blankets. I slip my feet out from under the pup’s weight—and it’s enough to turn her startled eyes on me.

I reach down to scoop Hedda into my arms before I throw my heavy legs over the edge of the bed. Heavy by sensation, not exactly weight gain from strict rations.

Though, Daxeel’s gift of coin will help with that.

An urgent violence rises through me, and I shove all thoughts of him from my mind, of his brokenness, of his defeat.

Good. He should be suffering.

I wish for him to suffer for the rest of his days.

I don’t quite know how well I mean that.

A huff tenses me as, holding Hedda to my chest, I wander to the light that trickles in through the ajar door. The soles of my feet slap on the wooden floorboards, much too loud, much too clumsy, much too sleepy.

I should be soft-footed. Light-stepped. I should move like a shadow for the ajar door, bated breath pinned to my chest, ears sharp for any new sounds that might come.

But I am just too fucking tired.

The edge of faint light touches my toes first.

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