Page 25 of To Touch A Silent Fury
We rolled smoothly over the wide stones underfoot, the trellised houses forming a charming picture, their faces painted in different colours and doors carved with intricate knockers. Like the other small towns we’d passed through in the Scentlands, everything was remarkably clean. Scentlanders took issue with anything foul-smelling, and in towns with this many people, that was not an easy problem to have.
As before, I found myself much more captivated by the citizens than the architecture. Every time I looked out the window, I expected to see a few men in grey cloaks strolling by. The colours still surprised me, as did the sight of women.
I grinned as a woman in a bright blue flowing top with a matching long skirt rushed past, paying no heed to the carriage as she cradled her basket under her arm. I leant forwards and was rewarded by the sight of a hunk of cheese poking out from under the pale basket covering.
The carriage jolted over a stone and my head smacked into the top of the window. I hissed in pain as Thread Ersimmonyanked me back into the seat. “Sit down this instant. You are to be a lady at the Games, not some gawking child.”
I tensed my jaw, biting back a response. This had been my every waking moment since we’d landed in Verdusk.That’s not how you should hold your cup, don’t eat too quickly, don’t maintain eye contact.
It was exhausting, and it was apparently Thread Ersimmon’s only role. His lurking shadow was nothing more than a reminder that I was not on some journey of my own volition, but a bride-in-waiting.
Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. As well as his persistent role as my chief chastiser, he was also my dance teacher. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d stood on his foot in the last week, but not all of those times were entirely accidents. On the creaking floorboards of each drafty inn, always in the cramped bedchambers and never in the common rooms, I’d learned a handful of formal dances. In my view, I moved well enough to blend in. Ersimmon thought I still resembled the flailing Oktorok. According to his instruction, my footwork in the ballroom was far more relevant to my hopes of marriage than my ability to hold a conversation. I hoped to prove him wrong, in part out of spite and in part for its unflattering reflection on my would-be groom.
“How long before we travel to the Isle?” Seth asked, his knee bobbing with excitement. He’d been talking about the flower-crusted pastries of the Scentlands since the day we met.
“We cross the lake in two days,” Thread Ersimmon replied, with a small shudder that reminded me how little he’d enjoyed our ferry crossing. I can’t say I’d much enjoyed the smell of him afterwards, either. Seth’s white eyes lit with hunger. At least one of us was enjoying the trip. The Thread warbled on. “I sent instructions ahead of us for several dresses for Tanidwen.I expect we’ll need to wait for them to be hemmed and adjusted before we can leave Lavendell.”
Seth waggled his eyebrows at me. “Dresses, eh?”
I swatted his jiggling knee. It annoyed me that the idea of new clothing was now tainted by what, orwhom, I was to be wearing them for. I’d wanted a beautiful dress since the first time I’d seen one painted in a book, craved them since the first time I’d read tales of knights and pretty damsels. Getting rid of these damned grey cloaks, wearing something with a hint of colour… it was thrilling. I’d been swaddled in cloaks designed for men for so long, I ached to see what I could become underneath them.
The carriage drew to a halt, and Seth had already opened the door. “Where are we staying?”
“We have rooms at the Forebud Hope.”
Seth tipped his head and shot me a smile. “I will see you both for dinner.”
He jumped down, skipping the step altogether, and disappeared from sight. Then I was alone with the old man who was supposed to teach me how to secure a husband, and I had never envied my friend more.
Seth and I had told each other everything the last few days, and I knew him better than I ever had. He had shared his mind and emotions with me willingly, answering every question about his childhood. And in turn, I had told him everything that had happened that evening with the Dragon Prince.
Well, almost everything. I had left out the desire I’d felt in his touch, and the way my heartbeat had skittered. It felt childish to claim the prince was in some way attracted to me when I knew practically nothing about him.
“I have some Brotherhood business to attend to,” Thread Ersimmon told me, his watery eyes appraising me with a narrow focus as he reached his leathery hand for the door.
“Buying some white-haired children from their parents?”
“Impertinent,” he replied, but it lacked the usual oomph. “No, I am not trusted with that task.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
The Thread raised a bushy white eyebrow, and his hand stilled on the carriage door. “I trust you have the necessary faculties to form a verbal question, yes.”
I held in the desire to roll my eyes. “MayI ask you a question?”
“You may,” he responded.
“How did you choose my Fate?”
He tapped the window with a wrinkled finger. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
I sighed, which was rude, but less so than the groan that almost came loose. “Does my blood truly choose my path? If so, why did my answers matter? How do you interpret the blood? How can my Fate be so honed to one path?”
“That is a lot of questions. I will answer one.”
I clenched my hand in my cloak, and was silent for several seconds. The Thread took no motion to rush me, only staring with his vacant gaze.
Finally, I settled on this:
