Page 84 of The Black Witch

Wynter looks up at him and nods slowly.

Wynter’s brother pushes past Rafe and helps Wynter to her feet before turning to glare at my brother. “Don’t ever speak to her again. Do you understand?”

“You’ve made yourself quite clear,” Rafe replies calmly.

The Elf shoots Rafe one last, withering glance before leading Wynter out of the dining hall, the two of them trailed by the other Elfin archer.

Fallon is looking at Wynter, a pleased expression on her face, her brothers talking with each other, already having lost interest.

And then she turns her head and looks straight at me.

Her smile is slow and malicious, and it sends a chill down my spine. She leans to say something to her brothers, and they both glance over at me with the same dark smiles. I inwardly recoil as Fallon lightly pats her wand, then laughs and leaves the dining hall with her brothers.

I slump down in relief.

A few moments later Rafe returns to our table. He’s carrying a stack of small bowls and a large, steaming bowl of oatmeal coated with a generous helping of roasted chestnuts, honey and sweet butter.

“Stop attacking the Elfin maidens,” Trystan wryly advises Rafe as he fusses with Gareth’s splint.

Rafe shoots Trystan a look of mock scorn as he sets out the stack of wooden bowls for us and spoons oatmeal into them.

“You’re going to get yourself shot,” Trystan warns. “With one of those long arrows of theirs.”

“I guess that’s what you get when you try to help Icarals,” I say stiffly as Aislinn accepts a bowl of oatmeal from Rafe.

“The girl’s brother is rude,” Rafe says as he hands me a full bowl, “but his hostility is not completely unjustified.”

“How can you say that?” I snipe. “He should have thanked you. Ancient One knows, she doesn’t deserve your help.”

Rafe’s brow tightens, and he pauses in his serving. “I thought Ariel was the one who attacked you.”

“She was, but Wynter made no move to help me, all night long, knowing I was being terrorized.” I feel a fresh prick of angry tears.

Aislinn puts a comforting hand on my arm.

“Even so,” Rafe says as he pours himself hot cider from a ceramic pitcher, “she’s an outcast among Elves and Gardnerians, and Kelts as well, to some extent. That puts her in a dangerous situation. Her brother’s just trying to protect her.” He sits down and stirs his oatmeal. “I shouldn’t have touched her. I forgot that their etiquette is different.”

“It’s best to stay away from non-Gardnerians,” I comment bitterly.

Rafe and Trystan shoot me looks of alarmed censure.

I color. “I don’t mean Gareth. Gareth, you know I don’t meanyou. You’reGardnerian.”

Gareth winces as Trystan tightens the bandage. “It’s okay, Ren. I know you’re not talking about me.”

I look to Trystan for reassurance. My quiet younger brother is always long on listening and slow to judge. Trystan gives me a small, encouraging smile, but Rafe is still blinking at me with concern.

“Theyhateme,” I defend myself to him, feeling lost. “They all hate me just because I look like our grandmother.”

Rafe takes a deep breath and reaches across the table to put his hand on mine. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. I wish we’d been here.”

“I know,” I mumble.

Rafe squeezes my hand in solidarity and smiles resignedly. Quiet for a moment, he glances down at the table. When he looks back up at me, his expression has grown strained. “Ren, Uncle Edwin...” His voice trails off.

“I heard,” I say sadly. “The Lodging Mistress told me he was ill. Do you have any news? Is he getting better?”

“Aunt Vyvian has him under a physician’s care.” Rafe is quiet for a moment. “Ren, he’s lost use of the left side of his body.”

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