Page 72 of The Second Death of Locke
“What are you doing?” she asked Kier after she rinsed her mouth. She already felt vaguely more human. She found a bucket on the other side of the room, probably used to hold water or feed when the hut was in use, and checked to make sure it was clean.
He sighed, sitting back. “Writing correspondence to Scaelas. I meant to yesterday, but you were…” He trailed off, leaving the state of her up for interpretation. “I keep crossing things out, rephrasing.”
She pulled off her shirt so she wouldn’t get it damp. Grey retrieved the soap from Kier’s shaving kit (his pack was much closer than hers, and his soap smelled nicer anyway) and poured a cup of water over her hair, leaning over the empty bucket. Her hair mostly contained, she started massaging the soap into it. It made a phenomenal mess, but at least she would be free of the filth of her sickbed.
“What areyoudoing?” Kier asked.
“Washing my hair.”
He sighed, the sound long-suffering. “You’re getting soap and water everywhere. Grey—how about I do that, and you can repay me by looking this over? Or write it yourself? I imagine you’re far better at it.”
She looked up from her bucket, wet hair dripping day-old blood down her face. “I’m a lady,” she said primly, “in every definition of the word.”
That was enough to get a smile out of him. He slipped down ontothe floor on the other side of the bucket, kneeling so his knees framed the wood. “Just rest your chin,” he murmured, positioning her head where he wanted it. Grey relished the ache in her back, the dampness of her knees from the growing puddle, the cold of the water and the warmth of Kier’s hands: all of it meant that she had survived, against the odds.
Kier massaged the soap into her scalp, his fingers deft and sure. She stifled a moan, turning her head and biting her lip.
“You know,” he said, taking the cup and pouring a stream of cold, clean water over her hair, “I imagined telling you my feelings a thousand times, in a thousand different ways. And yet I never imagined the evening ending with your head in a bucket.”
She winced. “Sorry.”
“Grey, if I don’t spend the rest of my life washing gore out of your hair, then it’s not a life worth living.”
She laughed despite herself, then closed her eyes, focusing on his hands on her scalp, rinsing out the soap.
“Hold still a second,” he said, and she heard rustling. He wrung out most of the water, then wrapped something around her head, lifting the mass of her hair. When a sleeve fell loose over her shoulder, she realized that he’d wrapped her hair in a shirt.
“Won’t we need this?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’ve lost more clothing to you on this mission than during the entire war effort,” he said, resigned, and she noted with some glee that he hadn’t realized just how many of his shirts she’d stolen.
“Kier,” she said before he could move away, even though there was a bucket of filthy water between them and she did need to clean the rest of her body before leaning further into any sweeping declarations. “Did you mean it?”
He stopped ruffling her hair in the shirt and looked down at her. “Which part?”
Grey chewed her lip. This whole afternoon felt like a fever dream, and to her credit, she wasn’t entirely dismissing the idea that ithadbeen one. “That you want to spend forever washing viscera out of my hair.”
He laughed, warm and safe and familiar, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I can think of no better way to spend our retirement.”
“But… our retirement.” She looked away, suddenly shy. “You know what it means.”
He smiled, but it was a sad sort of thing, weighted with understanding. “We have time to figure out what the future holds. Now come on, my lady. You foolish, courageous girl. Have a look at my letter.”
Grey released a breath. If he didn’t want to talk about Locke now, and what she had to do, then she was fine to put it off.
She read his letter. She read it over and over, top to bottom, until the words bleared together, making corrections with his pen. Finally, she said, “Give me a new sheet. My handwriting is better,” and he complied in an instant.
Halfway through, working on the phrasing of a line, she said, “Brit and Ola suspect the truth.”
He looked up from his own letter—when she’d taken over the diplomacy, he’d started one to his mothers. “I think Eron does as well. He said something about it when we were switching watch.”
Grey winced. “Apparently I… made the fact obvious.”
“I tried to stifle it,” Kier said. “Your screaming, I mean. I carried you when it got too bad, when Pigeon would go no further with you making such a racket on his back.” He sighed, putting his pen aside. “I’m sorry. I should’ve thought of a better explanation than none at all.”
“It’s not your fault,” Grey said, her brain caught onI carried you. How far? How long? “Useless horse.”
“Mm.”
