Page 8 of Tusk Love

“Cyrengreen,” Oskar said meditatively. Even just uttering the name sparked something in his veins—an uneasiness. A certain resonating wildness. “I’ve been there a few times. Not at all like other forests in Wildemount. Creepier.”

She didn’t say anything. He should take a cue from her and shut up now.

“What sort of lessons?” Oskar prodded. In the name of all the hells—why was he keeping this chatter going? It was her fault. All those tentative, glass bell–punctuated pauses, the melancholy expression on that beautiful face. He wanted to unwrap the enigmatic layers until he got to the very heart of her.

“Er, needlework, music, etiquette, some painting, a bit of household maths…” Her blush deepened. “Nothing that would be useful out here, I’m sure.”

Oskar now had enough information to form a picture of Guinevere’s parents. It was far from flattering but woefully standard everywhere in the Dwendalian Empire. The merchant class in these moderntimes, despite attaining a level of wealth that few could even dream of, still keenly felt the sting of their inglorious beginnings, their egos dragged down by the yoke of the labelnew richthat trailed after them from one gilded drawing room to the next. So they raised their sons and daughters as aristocrats in the hopes of establishing what they thought a dynasty should be.

It was a load of nonsense.

Oskar brooded quietly for so long—for so many steps on the tree-lined, sweeping dirt road—that Guinevere turned the conversational tables on him. “Oskar? Why are you going to Boroftkrah?”

“To visit my mother’s clan.”

“How wonderful!” she chirped. Social graces, so fine and merry, wrapped around him like a serpent’s coils, constricting his chest. “Does your mother live in Druvenlode as well? Will you introduce me? I should surely love to thank her for raising a chivalrous son who lent me aid when I needed it most.”

He couldn’t bear to say it. Not again. He’d already told the blacksmith, the neighbors, the debt collectors, the undertaker. If he had to say out loud one more time that Idun was gone, it would be in a roar. His fury would swallow the world.

“You should concentrate on your supplies checklist instead.” He changed the subject with a mild but implacable tone. He gestured at the satchel. “It should be easy enough to barter those trinkets of yours for rations—”

“But—”

“A medicine bag—”

“I can’t just—”

“A length of rope—what is it with people never thinking they’ll need rope—”

“The goods aren’t mine to do with as I please!” Guinevere burst out. “I told you, they’re for my parents to sell! I already left so much inventory behind with the wagon. The losses will be staggering. My father…” She fell silent, her shoulders slumped as though even this fleeting defiance had exhausted her.

Oskar was reminded, absurdly, of a hedgehog. Tiny and balled upin self-defense, with the odd pinprick of spine here and there. He scoffed. “Be that as it may, your folks aren’t going to prioritize a bag of hairpins over their daughter’s well-being.”

She hesitated, her small fists clenching at her sides. As though she were unsure of her place in the hearts of those who were supposed to love her.

In that moment, Oskar saw red. No child raised by a caring parent would react the way she had. “Guinevere, you will barter as many goods as you must for the supplies that you need,” he ordered. “If your father raises a stink about it, you have my permission to—to thump him.”

“Thump him?” she repeated, scandalized beyond measure. He was glad that he hadn’t gone with his original choice of words, which had beenbeat him to a pulp.She looked ready to faint. “Well, I never!”

“You can ever,” he retorted.

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Then she startled him by walking briskly ahead, leaving him in the dust.

He suppressed a reluctant grin. The hedgehog had claws, after all.

Chapter Six

Guinevere

Druvenlode had been constructed in response to the rich Silberquel mines; it hugged their entrances in a rough crescent, a gray city carved into the surrounding rock, honeycombed by splotches of yawning darkness that led to the vast tunnels snaking beneath the ridge. Oil lanterns burned valiantly through the steam and coal dust that thickened the purple-hued drape of twilight, and horse-drawn carts laden with silver ore rattled the winding streets. Throngs of people went about their business loudly and at a frantic pace, in a hurry to wrap up the day’s tasks and go home.

Guinevere couldn’t help but gawk everywhere she turned. It was all so different from the neatness and carefully ordered elegance of the Shimmer Ward. She craned her neck for a better view of every food stall that she and Oskar passed, perusing their offerings of ham sandwiches and buttered waffles and meat skewers and cups of peas in cream. She wandered closer to inspect each billowing forge and sunken quarry. She cooed at every horse trotting by.

Oskar eventually clamped a hand around her upper arm. “Stop walking in circles,” he muttered, tugging her deeper into the bowels of the city.

Soon they entered what Guinevere’s tutors would have delicately called “a rough neighborhood.” There were fewer lanterns, golden light so wan that it looked almost sickly as it fell on decidedly shabbier buildings and piles of refuse. The constant hammering from the nearby mines seemed louder—or perhaps there was less activity to drown it out. The people in this area of Druvenlode weren’t shopping or working; they slunk into alleyways, huddled in groups on street corners passing around flasks, watched from glassless windows.

They watchedher.

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