Page 53 of The Wulver's Bond
‘There is much to prepare,’ the Wulver said distantly. ‘We must make haste.’
‘What’s the rush?’ Moss followed Arran into the pantry, where the wolfman began selecting items for his rucksack.
‘We should travel while the weather is good. If we delay until autumn it will be much colder. I would rather not drag you through ice and snow.’
‘Why not wait until next spring? Or the year after that?’ Moss leaned in the archway, twirling the hem of his coat in one hand.
Arran’s shoulders hunched a little. ‘That is too long, Moss.’
‘Too long for what? Oh, stop sighing like that.’
Arran’s mournful behaviour was getting on Moss’s nerves. He left the wolfman to his preparations and went to lie in the sun, instead. The dune willows greeted him, familiar friends now, and offered shade from the newly returned sunshine.
Moss didn’t look forward to leaving. The ravine was a secure haven, sheltered from the rest of the world. A harsh, rocky grove in an even harsher landscape—and yet, made softer for all the harshness.
He entertained the thought of tending this grove with Arran. It struck him that, if the Walker witch truly could remove his chains, then Arran might finally consider Moss free enough for his choices to have meaning.
Moss stretched his arms into the sunlight. The tattoos were a dull, faded grey.
‘I feel free right now,’ he murmured. Arran had already broken through the real shackles. The ones that had fettered his mind and made him feel powerless. Moss wasn’t powerless.
He was formidable.
Chapter Nineteen
Arran, meanwhile, was chaos.
For the first time in decades, he was uncertain about something. About whether he was making the right decision. About letting Moss go.
It made absolutely no sense for his resolve to be wavering, he told himself. It waswrongto keep Moss here. Regardless of how much he wanted the snarky little brat to stay by his side.
But Moss kept questioning him, and every time he said ‘What’s the hurry?’ it fuelled Arran’s doubt.
He found himself mulling over the fantasy of waiting a whole year. Of pretending to own Moss for just a few months longer. Of allowing the chance, perhaps, for Moss to provoke him one time too many, and to let it all come crashing down.
There had been a change in Moss since Arran had revealed his plan to visit the witch. Moss seemed to walk taller. More sure of himself. He was stronger—and yet also inexplicably softer.
Arran was imagining it, he was sure, but it seemed to him that Moss kept reaching out with small, affectionate gestures. A gentle graze of a hand against his as they passed. The warmth of his body simply standing in Arran’s space. Leaning into him when they sat together.
How deeply Arran wished he wasn’t reading too much into this. How desperately he desired to pull Moss into his lap during the daytime, and into his bed during the night. He’d lain awake,listening to Moss’s peaceful breathing, feeling so very cold despite his thick fur.
Moss was happier because he was going to be free, he reasoned. The end of his confinement with Arran was in sight.
Despite himself, Arran delayed the journey. He kept finding new excuses to draw out his preparations. The smoke cave ought to be cleaned before they left. The sheepskins should be beaten and hung up to air. The larder needed to have an inventory taken.
There was one errand that was genuine, and more important than the rest. Arran was keen to make a final trip to his neighbour on the cliffs to deliver one last parcel before they left.
‘It could be months before I return,’ he explained to Moss. ‘I don’t wish to leave her wanting.’
Moss regarded the size of this parcel—basket, in fact, which Arran had filled to overflowing with all the fresh produce from the larder, and a great deal of the preserves too.
‘You’re a good friend, wolfie,’ Moss said. There was a strange lilt to his voice, a tenderness that made Arran’s breath catch.
Arran set a slow pace for the hike to his neighbour’s house. He felt guilty for it, but he wanted to stretch out his time with Moss just a little longer. After this final errand Arran would be left with no more excuses and they would start the journey south, over bleak moorland and across tumultuous sea to Orkney, and then on again to the Scottish mainland. It would not be comfortable, and might even be a little fraught if the weather turned bad. Adding in the stress of hiding from humans once they were close to civilisation again, Arran knew they were in for a taxing voyage.
When his neighbour’s cottage came into sight, Arran suggested Moss hide by the old stone road marker, as usual. He crept forward to place his basket by her back door, seeing as it was too large to place on the open windowsill.
Arran’s body froze, his senses picking up on the wrongness before his brain had processed it.
