Page 65 of A Vow of Blood and Tears

Her frank gaze was disconcerting, but there was no hatred or judgment in it.

H-O-W. D-I-D. H-U-M-A-N-S. G-E-T. T-H-E. B-E-T-T-E-R. O-F. F-I-E-N-D-S?

I laughed despite myself. “A swarm of ants could gnaw a lion down to the bone within hours… were they driven with single-minded rage and vengeance. Human slaves hoarded silver. They created the Arks—great ovens filled with rowan, even the smoke of which is poisonous to us. And they rose up all at once, as a single, widespread foe bent on liberation.”

Cirri raised a brow.

“Not that your people are ants,” I added hastily, and she smiled. “I could bring you a copy of the Accords if you’d like, and I’ll give you the history behind each agreement.”

She nodded enthusiastically, beaming at me, and my heart stuttered in my chest.

“I’d like to hear about your day, though. I’ve been speaking too long.” My voice emerged gruffer than before. I was fascinated by this woman, who got excited over dry history and political agreements.

She gazed at me for a moment, then put her hand on my arm. Every sense immediately honed in on that small area, the warmth of her hand, the lingering roughness of her calluses, the faintest hint of her pulse, even her scent: roses and skin musk.

And then she took it away, pushing her plate back and rising from her chair. She beckoned to me, touching my arm again, and I was helpless to do anything but follow her, a spreading shadow in her wake.

To my surprise, she led me to my own door, pushing it open and stepping inside.

After our wedding night… I hadn’t believed she’d want anything to do with this room. But she had not only slipped in to leave her journal, she simply walked in now, with me at her back.

I followed with almost tentative steps, wondering if she was only trying to collect her journal before wishing me good night, but she closed the door behind me.

And locked it.

I hovered near the door, unsure of where to go. The bed? No, that was too blatant, a barely-veiled invitation. The desk chair? Ancestors, that thing was barely hanging on by a splinter, and I didn’t want to crush it and end up in an disgraceful pile of wood at her feet.

I remained where I was, lurking in the shadows as Cirri found her journal on my bed, right where I’d left it—and ploppedonto the bed herself, kicking off her slippers and drawing her feet up, opening the journal on her lap.

She pushed a cloud of hair out of her face and reached into her bodice, pulling out her pen and uncapping it, then looked up at me.

Cirri patted the bed, brows raised.

I crept forward as she turned to a fresh page and began writing, forming letters with military precision. As I sank onto the soft mattress—not close enough to touch, unless I raised an arm, not far enough to make it seem like I was trying to create an uncrossable gap between us—she pushed it towards me.

There wasn’t much to my day, either, she’d written.I spent most of it sitting. Also—and I’m not asking to be killed by a warg, don’t misunderstand me—but I think I would’ve preferred to go tracking with you. Miro might be the finest artist in the Rift, but his company leaves something to be desired.

I read it, and she quickly took the journal back, adding in:I’m sorry, I don’t mean to complain. You’ve given me more than I ever could’ve asked for already.

“Oh, don’t apologize,” I breathed. “I took you from your life; I don’t want you to apologize for anything.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, twisting the pen in one hand before putting it to paper again.I can’t say I enjoy sitting for this, but I’ll do it if you wish. I suppose it will make a good memory. But I am incredibly excited to read through the Accords with you. There’s so much to our shared history we aren’t taught anymore, not with the wargs about.

There was an odd look on her face as she wrote, something indecipherable.

Something almost sad… although I couldn’t quite see what would upset her.

The portrait would ensure I would always have an image of her, even when I was alone and she was long since dust in the ground… and the thought of that alone sent a pang through my chest, a feeling of empty hollowness so intense I could almost believe that I hadbeen emptied out by invisible hands.

“History is important. We have a tradition of memory here in Ravenscry,” I started, tapering off.

This was a terrible idea… but she might also see why we held artists in regard. Why some memories were best committed to paper, so we could remember with vivid clarity what had been.

Cirri looked at me questioningly, waiting for me to finish.

“Come with me,” I said, and rose from the bed, holding out a hand. She took it, tucking her journal under one arm, and I led her under the warg skin to the secret door, to the stairs that spiraled upwards to the tower’s peak.

When I opened the door to the garret, revealing the hundreds of paintings Edda had left behind, Cirri drew her breath in a small gasp. She immediately went to the left, taking in an image of a fortress with the ramparts collapsed and the outer walls burned, then moved on to a forest of shadowy trees wreathed in fog, the suggestion of a wolf’s yellow eyes in the shadows.

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