Chapter
16

Cohen

I FOLLOW BRITTA INSIDE HER COTTAGE. Heat from the hearth’s fire fills the room. Near the cozy blaze, Gillian sits in Saul’s chair, poking a needle at a frilly scrap of fabric like I might go at quartering a deer.

She stops and waves it in the air. “Look what I’m making. Your walls need a bit of something.” The handmaid glances around, but unlike when she first came to Britta’s cottage, she doesn’t turn up her nose. She just smiles expectantly at Britta.

“Uh, thank you.” Britta studies the thing, bemused.

“Hello, Gillian.” I smile at the nurse, and she gives me a prim nod.

My stomach grumbles. After traveling long hours, I want to sink my teeth into something filling, wash up, and sleep for days.

My eyes catch on Britta’s cloak as she hangs it beside the door. It’s new. For the first time I remember that her old one was stained by Enat’s blood. Makes me ache for Britta and the losses she’s suffered. “I’m glad you got a new coat, Dove.”

Britta blushes my favorite shade of rose. “Oh, I . . . yeah.”

“The king gave it to her,” Gillian says.

“The king?” I’m not sure why Gillian’s comment doesn’t sit right.

Britt takes one look at my face and clarifies that the king noticed her cloak was ruined, so he replaced it.

“Nice of him,” I mutter.

“You should see what he gave her for her birthday.” Gillian sets her stitching down and moves to the bedroom door. Her birthday?

“Stop, Gillian,” Britta snaps.

And realization hits me hard. Britta turned eighteen a little over a week ago. I was so focused on getting home that I overlooked the day. “Gods, I’m the king of bludgers. I forgot, Dove. I—I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been hunting.” She shrugs like it’s not a big deal.

But it is. “Bloody seeds, Britt. What am I good for if I cannot remember your birthday?”

“You’re not a bludger. At least, not at the moment.” She nudges my shoulder, attempting to soften my own disappointment. Only makes it worse. “Besides, you’re good for catching dinner. I think I’ll keep you around.”

“I had time to work on my stitches since you shot out of here like there was a golden stag in the forest.” Gillian holds her handiwork to the light once more. “I’m nearly finished.”

Britta drops her head back and laughs. I’m mesmerized by the sound. I get distracted by the smooth column of her neck. I want my mouth on her, just there. “A golden stag would weigh more than Snowfire. How would I get it home?”

The nurse stabs a needle into the material. “It’s a figure of speech.”

“What kind of entrails does a golden—?”

“Clearly, you’re missing the point.”

The sight of Britta’s grin breaks my remaining disappointment at having missed her birthday. I like to see that she’s friends with her nurse. Six weeks ago, Britta and the maid got on like oil and water.

While they talk, I slip out of the cottage to fetch a bucket of water. I return and pour the water into a cast-iron pot. Once it’s in the embers, I stoke the fire and wait for the water to boil.

I overlooked Gillian’s presence here in my haste to meet Britta in the woods. Seems my plans for a private reunion are foiled. Wish I’d taken more time with her in the practice clearing. Since I became an official bounty hunter for King Aodren nearly a year and a half ago, our only moments alone were as fugitives.

I’ve loved Britta since she was fourteen years old. Loved that she could hold her head up, shoulders back, and face each day despite how townspeople in Brentyn taunted her. There’s no other woman who possesses her strength and resilience.

I’ve had time to know, without a doubt, she’s the woman I want by my side. And if she’ll have me, she’s the woman I want to spend my life with. Now that we’re not running from guards or stopping a war, we can focus on the future.

The entire way back from Shaerdan, I planned out what I wanted to say to Britta. Except, no matter what I hoped for tonight, it’s not happening. That’s not a conversation to be had while Gillian’s around.

So I tuck away my disappointment and save my words for another day.

When the water’s boiling, I drop in a goose, giving its skin time to loosen. When the stink of wet down fills the cottage, I thrust my knife in the goose and, with the help of a long spoon, lift it from the pot. The bird’s wet splat on the table draws the girls’ attention. But I keep to my business, putting another goose in the water before returning to the table to pluck out the first bird’s feathers.

Next thing I know, Gillian’s standing beside me, two bowls of pottage in her hands. “You’re not going to do that nasty business here?”

I drop a feather in the basket beside the table because obviously I’m doing this here.

She sets the bowls down. “How Britta doesn’t swoon at your gentlemanly ways is beyond me.”

“A struggle, certainly.” I wink at her.

Britta steps between us and rests her hand on the table. “Don’t let him get under your skin, Gillian.”

Smiling, Gillian shakes her head. I cover Britta’s fingers with mine. I’d do anything to make this girl happy, even if it means plucking geese in the cold. “Want me to take it outside?”

“Do you think the table’s large enough for all of us?” Britta looks imploringly at her handmaid as she hands me a bowl of pottage.

Gillian mutters something under her breath that I don’t catch because I’m still goose plucking in between taking bites of supper.

At first I think it’s another playful jab until Britta’s fists clench.

“What was that?” I ask.

“I only said this sort of thing wouldn’t be a problem if Britta had accepted the king’s offer.” Gillian’s gaze glosses with longing. Whatever the king offered must’ve been as tempting as a crown of rubies.

“Offer?” My hand stills on the goose.

“Nothing,” Britta says at the same time Gillian reverently murmurs, “King Aodren invited her to live at the castle.”

My face feels stretched thin for how far my brows shoot up. “Is—is that what you want?”

“It was nothing.” Britta glares at Gillian and drops into the seat nearest me. “He offered after . . . after what happened in the woods. It was a safety measure.”

Right. I pluck and pluck. Feathers float to the floor, filling in around my feet like blood-stained snow.

When I glance up, the crinkled skin around Britta’s eyes tells me there’s more.

It’s impossible to keep the frown off my face. “Anything else happen with the king?”

Britta pushes her food to the side. “Before Aodren—”

“Aodren?” My hand tightens around the damn goose’s neck.

“Before King Aodren was in the woods, he stopped here. To bring the dresses. And he invited me to—”

“Dresses,” Gillian echoes with a squeal. She crosses to the bedroom door, pushes it open, and points at the heap of color filling the chair beside the bed. Then she lets out one more eeek.

“Dresses,” I mutter to myself.

I’ve been away six weeks, and now Britta’s calling the king by his given name and he’s delivering dresses. I push the goose aside. Though I was hungry as a bear waking from hibernation, the few bites of pottage I’ve eaten in between plucking turns to stones in my stomach.

Nothing about the king giving gifts to Britta sits right with me. Still, I manage a tight smile. “Won’t make good hunting wear, but you’ll look pretty. Then again, you look good in just about anything.”

She rolls her eyes. “It was just his way of saying thank you. It’s nothing, really.”

He’s a fool. Britta couldn’t care less about gowns.

Gillian flounces back to the table. “They’re for the king’s Winter Feast Ball, where she’ll be presented as nobility.” The handmaid’s singsong gushy words strike like an ax right to my core. I don’t understand the man’s intentions toward Britta. Realizing he’s got some agenda makes me feel off-kilter.

The glare Britta shoots Gillian’s way sends the maid for the door. “Looks like we’ll need another bucket of water.”

The door shuts, and for a moment neither Britta nor I speak.

I’m dazed, like someone just punched me. Britta bites her lip, making them blossom red against her snowy skin. Seeds, she’s beautiful. “Aod—King Aodren said Papa was nobility. That I should be given the same title.”

“That what you want?”

“I—I told him I’d go.”

Sounds ridiculous coming from the girl who wanted nothing to do with anyone in Malam, let alone noble lords and ladies. I finish plucking the goose bare. Feathers fill the basket. Cover the floor. I move onto the next bird, drag it from the boiling bath with a long spoon, and throw the third in the water.

I don’t want to ask if there’s more, but I’m a jealous runaway horse, plowing straight for a cliff: “How many gifts is he going to give you?”

She glares at me. “He can afford a hundred cloaks. A thousand dresses. A few gifts mean little to him, just a way of thanking me. How can I say no? He’s the king.”

I snatch the third goose from the bath. Return it to the table. Drop the fowl with a thwack, splattering hot, stinking water. One hand pins the goose down; the other pulls and plucks, pulls and plucks.

The warmth of her grip on my wrist breaks my thoughts.

“The bird’s already dead, Cohen.” Her soft voice jars my riled mood, putting the room in clearer focus. Feathers and the pink residue of diluted blood coat my hands.

I drag in a slow breath. I promised her honesty after she forgave me for keeping secrets from her in Shaerdan. Resolved to it, I speak my mind: “Just seems like he wants something from you.”

Her chin jerks up, a scoff parting her lips and hurt shading her voice. “You think the king would only show me kindness to get something in return?”

“That’s not what I—”

Her blue eyes narrow. “Because obviously I have nothing else worthy to give. What else could he possibly want from someone like me?” The hurt turns harsh. “Someone with no family, no friends, no money. No skill, other than hunting?”

I growl at the plaster above. “Dammit. No, I don’t think that.”

She stirs her soup vigorously.

I shove away from the table and walk to the cleaning water to dip my hands. Once they’re free of grime, I squat beside her chair. “Come on, Dove. You’re smart, kind, true. Beautiful, bloody capable with a bow, and tougher than any girl I’ve ever met. You have much to offer.”

Her gaze stays down, targeting her lap.

“All I’m saying is the king showed his thanks when he overlooked you being a Channeler. You saved his life, and he spared yours.”

Her grip tightens around the curve of the bowl.

I should stop. Work on the birds and keep my mouth shut. Only, I think of King Aodren showering my girl with gifts, and it hits me hard between the ribs. It’s a pretty trap for a girl who’s grown up with nothing. Gillian’s already fallen for the idea.

Saul told me that being a Channeler, more specifically, a Spiriter, attracts two different types of people: those who’ll want to hurt her, and those who’ll want to use her.

I run my fingers up and down my scar, remembering all that she did for me. All she’s capable of doing. Anyone with knowledge of her gift might be tempted to take advantage of her.

I draw in a deep breath and look straight into her wintry blue eyes. “Ever consider he wants to use you for your ability?”

Britta curses under her breath and mutters something about me having lost my seeds. Thing is, she’s still got all his gifts around her home. If they were nothing, she’d have gotten rid of them.

Britta thinks the man wants friendship. But I think he wants something more than friendship, or he wants something only a Channeler with her capability can offer.

Either way, both options put me on edge.