Page 70 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

I don’t know what poison is in the seemingly innocuous words, but a threat is clear.

She shivers, though she tries to mask it, and answers almost against her will. “I am. And I do.”

“Ah,” he whispers, thin tongue darting out to lick his now curling lips. “Ah.I is for infant.It is hard to be a mother sometimes, is it not? I can only imagine.” There is a dripping, liquid sound of hunger in his sneering words; Bri’s eyes widen in alarm, but Wren, who has been a wilting flower to this point, suddenly sits upright, looking down toward Nickolas, hand on her throat, eyes narrowing. The change in her is a lightning strike - in a sudden, blinding flare she has gone from shadow to scythe.

Voice is studiously casual, almost unconcerned, she locks herempty, unseeing gaze on Nickolas. “Is it? Now? I wouldn’t think so, Bri. I really wouldn’t think so.” She’s so calm it makes whatever menace he was trying to leverage seem overblown and dramatic, makes him seem like a petulant child, and he trembles with anger at it.

There are strange things at play here, and I’m missing all of them, but Bri hears something I don’t, face softening into a desperate hopefulness. “Our youngest was born on the Birthing Day, so…but we have an older child as well.”

Wren’s thin fingers are still resting on her collarbone, and I can see a vein pulse on the slender column of her neck. She tilts her head curiously, then smiles at Bri. “How fortunate. Children are a blessing from the Gods. I amcertainyours will grow in health and safety.” Some kind of promise is in her words, some kind of vow, and I’m suddenly and desperately frustrated at the way these people speak in endless riddles and hidden meanings. Nickolas is incandescent, anger pouring from him in waves, but Bri and Grace, and Bri’s husband, are focused on Wren like she is the moon and the sun in the sky.

“Thank you, Keeper,” Bri whispers, voice tremulous. Of all the things this evening, somehow those simple words are what shakes her apart, and she wipes her eyes surreptitiously. “We’ll….we’ll see you in the morning, shall we? Grace and I will come by to get you.”

“I look forward to it,” Wren replies, even as Nickolas surges to his feet at the exchange. The women beside her startle back at the sudden movement, but the two Councilmen next to him grab his arms, faces alarmed, and rapidly pull him away, muttering frantically under their breath, shooting looks at the rest of the table, where Nickolas’s inexplicable fury is drawing unwanted attention.

“Not long left to the night!” one of the Councilmen calls out, faux jocularity ringing sourly in his words as he tries to smooth the weirdly escalating situation. “Enjoy the dance and the mead while there’s still time!” Again with a barely hidden warning, though most around us are drunk enough that it drifts across them like smoke before dissipating. Bri and Grace hear it, though, and hurry to the two men, each taking one by the hands and pulling them away from the table. Bri’s husband goes quickly and willingly, but Tahrik looks overhis shoulder toward Wren, who almost seems to meet his gaze. Their exchange is brief; and though I feel like I’m imagining it because her face is unmoving, some unsure hope seems hidden in its shadows. It drains away when he flicks his eyes to the still arguing Councilmen, and then down at Grace, who is tugging entreatingly on his hand.

“Come, Tahrik!” She’s flirtatious, alluring, a warm earthiness in her voice. “The night is drawing to a close soon!” There’s an offer clear in her words.

Again he looks toward the Councilmen, and then once more at Wren, before smiling down at Grace next to him. “Well! If there’s only a short time of dancing remaining, we should go! Councilmen! Won’t you join us?”

The invitation hovers in the air, the three vultures pause their furious discussion, unsure of how to respond. Two or three of my people, who have been uninvolved to this point, glance at me questioningly, and I jerk my head toward the Councilors surreptitiously. Immediately they jump to their feet, bringing the women beside them with them, followed quickly by the rest of my people, and surround the councilmen in noisy encouragement.

“Lead the way!”

“To the music!”

“More drink! More drink!”

Their shouts and the press of their bodies push the Councilmen away from the table, away from the shadowed wall, and away from Wren and me, where we are suddenly left in a vacuum of sound.

The silence is heavy. Her face is still turned toward the departing crowd, and I can see her swallow hard, jaw flexing, eyes wide and empty in the flickering torchlight. Sadness wraps around her shoulders like a cloak; I know nothing and less than nothing, but it is clear how hard her life has been for her, though I don’t understand why. A strange sort of panic grips my heart as I realize how desperately I want to make things easier for her, as I realize how quickly time is passing here, as I realize I have two days left with her white eyes and moonlit face.

“Wren?”

She turns to me, and all my carefully planned words are lost in the curve of her lips and the shadows like bruises beneath her eyes. Instead, I pick up an empty glass and fill it from the flask of pure water from my side. Putting it in front of her, I guide her hands toward it until they rest on its edges.

“My water is yours, if you want it.” It’s the best I can do, feels woefully inadequate for what I’m offering, for what I’m asking, but it’s the way of her people, and is heavy with meaning for her. I said the simple words earlier without realizing what they invited; now I make it clear that they are intended, that I want her to drink from my cup.

Her fingers jump, just a tiny flick of movement, and then she is still for a long, long time. Long enough that I become nervous, long enough that I’m sure I’ve misstepped again somehow, that I’ve grievously offended her or broken some unspoken rule. But then.Then. Slowly, with heart-stopping care, her hands wrap around the cup in front of her, and lift it in agonizingly deliberateness to her mouth. It hovers in front of her face for a second, or a minute, and she bites her pink lip in thought, staring down at the water.

Worlds die and are reborn in my soul when, raising her eyes to mine, she finally brings it to her mouth, and drinks.

“Thank you for the water, Kaden,” she whispers, face softening, blooming into an unsure sweetness unlike any I’ve ever seen or tasted, and my heart explodes inside my chest.

The trade has been accepted.

OF WISHES AND WHISPERS

WREN

The door to my cottage creaks loudly in the silence, but I barely hear it over the stuttering pulse in my veins and the sound of Kaden’s shallow breath behind me. There is a weight to this moment that is tangible, a velvet thickness in the darkness of the motionless room, and I pause, back to him, not turning around. This night has been a series of ebbs and flows, of unexpected pain, and the promise of unknown pleasure, and all of it together is petrifying in a way that makes it difficult to breathe.

In many ways, I don’t understand myself or the choices I am making that I can’t go back from.Is it loneliness, or is it being alone? It is loneliness, loneliness, loneliness…

Ah, Little Keeper. You deserve more than the scraps you have been given.

Lorcan’s voice vibrates with sadness, or pity, and I can’t tell which.

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