Page 59 of Bitten & Burned
He turned back to his crate.
“You can leave whenever.” But, as I stepped toward the door, he spoke again.“She still holed up in the conservatory?”
I looked back at him. “Yeah.”
He didn’t look at me, just kept digging through his crate like he hadn’t asked at all.
“Figures.”
That was all. But it felt like it meant something.
ROWENA
The air in the conservatory had grown stale since I’d closed the door. It clung to my skin like a forgotten perfume, heavy with the scent of dust and long-settled greenery.
I wanted to smell fresh air again, but going outside meant walking the halls. Possibly running into Vael.
And I did not want to see him. Even the thought of his voice in the hall made my stomach tighten.
I didn’t really want to see anyone.
Except possibly Dmitri.
I crossed to one of the windows. There were many, but I chose the one farthest from the door. Distance felt safer, even if it was only a handful of steps.
I didn’t know why I picked that one. But I did.
The latch creaked from disuse, but it opened fine. I stood nearby, letting the cool breeze hit my skin. It carried the sharp bite of autumn, threading through my hair and lifting the heaviness from my chest by degrees.
It occurred to me that a cross-breeze would help more than anything. So I walked to the opposite end of the room to open another window.
That was when I heard it. A small, intrusive sound in the otherwise soft hum of the conservatory—a sound that didn’t belong here.
The crunch of gravel.
From the window I’d just left.
I froze, then peeked through the glass toward the sound.
Quil.
I swallowed. Wondered if he saw me. The urge to duck out of sight warred with the part of me that wanted him to.
It would be silly to think he didn’t.
He set something down on the sill and stayed for a long moment before he turned and walked away. Like he was leaving more than just the bundle behind.
I waited until the sound of his footsteps faded. Until the gravel crunch was replaced by silence, and the soft whistle of the wind.
Then I walked back.
On the sill sat a small bundle, wrapped in a stained handkerchief and weighed down with a smooth river stone. Light green, no bigger than my palm. Just enough to keep it from blowing away.
The handkerchief—I recognized it. Quil’s. The one he used to clean his blades. Blackened with grease. Rust brown where blood had dried. A dirty scrap of fabric. And yet, I held it like it might burn me if I loosened my grip.
I picked it up and unfolded it.
Inside: something small. Gray. Worn.
