Page 151 of A Dagger of Ice and Intrigue
Not exactly hostile, but cautious.
Their movements slowed, children were huddled behind wool skirts, whispers erupted, too low to hear.
But they beat against my bones.
My smile wavered as I walked around the market, trying to seem as unthreatening as someone named The Huntress could. I focused my attention on the little wooden shop price signs, the carts of searing fatty cheeses, and the leather goods put on display every other stand.
But the whispers increased, ghosting across the back of my neck, no matter how straight my spine stood.
I needed to blend into this city, my new home, but my presence pulsed like a splinter under a nail.
I didn’t know what I had been expecting, perhaps cool indifference, but the attention was making my skin crawl. Coming here had disrupted the slow, crisp rhythm I’d observed from a distance all those days.
Running away wasn’t an option now, but I felt too exposed. Too seen.
So I turned my head and pretended I’d just noticed the sweets shop I’d carefully scouted, and rushed toward it, all those eyes hounding me just like the wolves had. But they didn’t have teeth.
They judged.
Only when the shop bell rang and the door closed behind me did I loose a shaky breath.
The smell of cinnamon, apples, and honey instantly flooded my senses, craving and disgust fighting each other deep in my belly. An entire rainbow of parchment-wrapped sweets, sugary apples, and rolled pastries stuck out in small mounds from weathered barrels. Everywhere I looked, a new temptation beckoned me closer.
My senses were so consumed by the array before me, I didn’t notice the short shop owner at my side until I turned.
“Oh.” I flinched back, almost knocking into one of the overflowing barrels. The mighty Huntress, all grace and agility, in all her might. “Hello.”
“Hello, dear.”
Mrs. Mallowmere was a pint-sized Mrs. Thornbrew, with softer features, chubbier cheeks, and fluffier wool skirt, made out of mismatched patches in one big colorful tapestry, with a pink shawl on her shoulders. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were as cautious as the ones which had run me into her shop.
She might’ve been a full head shorter than me, but her presence was big.
I’d expected a scowl. Maybe being run out of her shop.
Instead, she stood there, looking up at me with the same sweetness surrounding us.
I cleared my throat and yanked my courage out of the depths of guilt where it had huddled. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, dear?” she asked. Not moving. Not blinking.Staring.
“For starting a fire near your shop.” Grandpa Constantine always told us not to do deeds we couldn’t fess up to, no matter how hard it was. And this washard. Because the action had been born out of desperation and misplaced hope, and it had almost cost me my life. “Your business was in no danger of catching fire, I made sure of that, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t selfish of me. And I’m so very sorry.”
Mrs. Mallowmere kept staring at me. My palms turned clammy. Perhaps facing the crowd outside wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Finally, she sighed. “You came at just the right time, the shops are closing up.”
“Oh. I’m sorry if I intruded.”
“No, it’s perfect. You can roll up those sleeves and help clean up.” She raised her brows at me. “You say you’re sorry. Prove it.”
“Oh.” Did I not know any other word? “Of course, tell me where you need me.”
I’d already started to take off my coat–these thick sleeves were never getting rolled–when Mrs. Mallowmere began to laugh. It sounded open and real and caught me off guard.
People usually chuckled lowly or laughed harshly around me. Few had ever been so unguarded with their joy around me.
“Cecylia was right.” She shook her head, white curls bouncing. “You’re not as princessy as we all feared.”
