Page 19 of Garlands and Gauntlets

And I think…no.

I don’t have time to help him, do I?

“Thank you for your hospitality, again,” I say, unable to figure out what else needs to come out. “I hope there’s room…”

“Well, we don’t have any beds big enough for you,” Alessia laughs. “But you can sleep in Vaelin’s old room. We store some things in there now, but you should have space for some pillows and a blanket.”

“And of course, we have to treat you to a tart before bed, right?” Merrick says.

I grin at Vaelin’s little family, nodding.

At least I have somewhere warm and safe to sleep…and at this point, it’s all I can ask for.

We eat our tart and laugh together, and talk…and I start to feel even more at home. I don’t want to lose these people; they’re kind, decent.

And I think Vaelin is too.

He lied to me. But he also let me in. He cared, in his own strange, infuriating way.

And now I don’t know whether to be angry at him…or at myself for still wanting to trust him.

Whatever the case, I can figure it out in the morning.

Chapter ten

Vaelin

Maybe it’s silly, butthe next night, I find myself back at the Frosted Flagon.

The tavern isn’t as loud as it was the night we met, but it’s busy enough to drown out my thoughts, which is all I need right now. The smell of roasted meat and mulled cider fills the air, the fire crackles in the hearth. I sit in the same corner where I first saw Theo, hood pulled over my head, nursing a tankard of cider I’ve barely touched.

I’m here because I’m hoping he’ll show up–which is ridiculous, really. It’s the kind of thing Calliope would tease me for, because I amnota hopeless romantic, yet here I am.

Because as much as I hate to admit it, I miss him.

The sound of the door opening makes me glance up out of habit, and for a moment, I think I’m imagining him…until the rest of the bar goes quiet, and I realize I must not be the only one seeing him.

He lingers in the doorway, scanning the tavern like he’s trying to decide whether to come in or turn around and leave. His fiery hair is damp with melting snow, his cloak dusted in frost–and it looks like he has fresh mistletoe braided into his beard.

He looks good…not like he slept on the streets.

That’s good. I’m glad. Even if I’m a little upset that he didn’t spend the night in my bed.

I sit up straighter, pulling my hood back so he can see me–and as soon as he does, he makes up his mind. To my relief, he doesn’t leave; instead, he comes closer, weaving through the tables and bumping into more than a few people along the way, whispering apologies.

He sits down–thank the gods, because my neck is starting to cramp up from looking at him–and clasps his hands in front of him. He doesn’t speak.

“Hi,” I finally say.

“Hi.”

He looks at my half-empty tankard, glances around the bar.

“Were you looking for a mark?” he asks.

I wince and shake my head. “No…I was looking for you. Or—hoping you’d show up.”

“Why?”

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