Page 66 of A Vow of Blood and Tears

“These are as true to life as they can possibly be,” I said, my voice echoing off the stone walls. “Like images taken from our minds. Miro’s mother, Edda, painted them—once she saw something, she never forgot it, not a single detail. She was the court artist of Ravenscry throughout the war, and she spent it documenting everything she laid eyes on.”

Cirri paused before a terrible painting, executed in blacks and grays and reds, and glanced at me.

“Yes, that is true to life,” I said heavily. “The slaughter of Morgrave—in the time before I was a fiend. We came too late, and that’s all we found left of it.”

A shiver went through her shoulders, and she moved on to a more peaceful image: Tristone and its people, a bucolic scene of men shoring up walls. “Edda was relieved to paint that one. She told me it was a rest from all the other horrors she saw; she wanted at least one memory that was of a good, quiet moment.”

My chest tightened as Cirri drew closer to the one portrait I didn’t quite want to show her, and in accordance with my nerves, she skimmed past more paintings and death and blood, and finally stopped in front of it.

She reached out to tip it back, getting a better look at the subject. Once more, her expression was opaque to me; why couldn’t I read her face as easily as I could read her journal?

Cirri looked from me to the painting and back again, and that knot of tension within me refused to unwind.

“She painted it for me, to remind me that nothing changed,” I said bitterly. “That face is who I am inside, even if I don’t reflect it now. But I don’t agree. I find it easier to look upon paintings of abattoirs than to look upon what I’ve lost, as selfish as that is.”

Cirri shook her head and signed, her movements gentle and smooth. She gave one last glance at another picture—the day we stormed the village of Frogmot and killed a pack of worshippers who hadn’t yet made the leap to warg—and took my hand, leading me back towards the door.

Down the stairs we went, and she brought out her journal.

I still see you, she wrote.

“There’s nothing of him to see anymore,” I growled, immediately regretting it, but Cirri flicked my hand and patted the bed for me to sit, writing more.

Don’t be ridiculous. You may look like a fiend, but that’s a choice you made for a good reason and now you have to live with it. That’s what weallhave to do. I still see you, fiend or not, and there’s no point in being bitter about the things we can’t change.

Despite the unease in my veins, Cirri’s no-nonsense words made me smile. “Ancestors, I’ll rue the day you and Wyn team up against me.”

She covered her mouth as she laughed, then wrote:I learned it the hard way, too. But I see you, and you hear me. Yes?

“I hear you, and you see me,” I murmured, touching her words. “Yes.”

She took the journal back and paused, her pen over the paper. Her gaze had moved to the keep door, speculation in her eyes; she seemed deep in thought, nervously licking her lips.

Finally, she wrote so quickly the words could almost be considered a scrawl, and shoved it at me.

I read it, then read it again. And a third time, to be sure.

May I sleep in here tonight?

“Every night. Every day, if you please.” I gave her the journal, and Cirri exhaled, the faintest pink tinge on her cheekbones. My throat prickled at the sight, and I swallowed, violently shoving aside any thought of thirst or sex. “I won’t touch you, or try to feed from you. You have my word, not as a gentleman, but as a fiend.”

That got another hushed snicker of breath, and she stood up, fumbling behind herself until she untied her laces and peeled off the brocade overdress, leaving herself in nothing but the white linen of the undergown.

I couldn’t watch. Cirri didn’t seem to mind as I turned my head away, willing to respect her choice not to be touched or fed upon, unwilling to torment myself with more visions of things that couldn’t be.

She crawled up into my bed, kicking aside covers and making herself comfortable. In the midst of all the blankets, her eyes began to droop almost immediately. I began unlacing my coat, debating how far to undress… I would keep on my shirt and trousers, at the least, though I preferred to sleep nude.

Ancestors knew she’d be upset if she woke to a naked fiend in the bed, even with my promises to honor her wishes.

I was two glorious seconds from laying down next to her when a soft knock sounded on my door. There was the muted rasp of a paper being slipped under the wood; I picked up the parchment to find my steward’s tidy, crabbed writing, and smiled at the message.

In the morning, I would give her what she dreamed of.

When I finally laid down, there was a solid foot of empty air between us, but the sweet scent of Cirri’s hair filled the space.

I stayed on my back, hands laced across my stomach, feeling a little corpse-like in my position but happy to have her presence in here. My wife wriggled a little, turning onto her side to face me, and within minutes her eyes were closed and her breath came in soft, even puffs.

In her sleep, she stretched out one hand and flattened it on my arm, as though bracing herself on a heaving ship, but I didn’t dare move. Not while she was comfortable.

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