Page 12 of The Iron Dagger
For a moment Gideon felt compelled to say something to her—but what could he say? Anything he said would sound disingenuous, especially after the short-tempered way he had behaved since waking in her cottage. She must think him just as bigoted as the others at court, and perhaps he was. Hadn’t he let one bad experience with dark herblore cloud his judgment of her?
Shame, an unfamiliar emotion in Gideon’s limited repertoire, settled deep in his gut like nausea.
They finished washing the dishes in silence. When they were done, he took the basins and tossed the water outside. Hara brewed him a tea that had been helping him sleep these past few nights, and he sipped it while she undressed for bed.
She had done this the past several nights without care, and he had made a point to avoid looking at her while she was in her shift after that first night. It made him uncomfortable to see her so vulnerable, so . . . womanly. It was easier to reconcile her in his mind as Angharad the Hedgewitch if she were fully dressed. But now, his eyes drifted in a subtle slant as he paid closer attention.
The way the fabric of her shift pulled taut over her hips and thighs as she knelt to fold her skirts. The hint of shoulder that was revealed as the garment was pulled askew. She straightened it, and then sat upon the nest of blankets before the hearth. With nimble fingers, she loosened the braids that were pinned up to her scalp.
The chestnut waves tumbled free, a dark river glinting in the firelight. He caught that fragrance again, the sweetness of mint and flowers mixed with her warmth. With a start, Gideon realized his breathing had quickened as he watched her, and an uncomfortable tightening was building between his legs.
Damn. He must be truly losing his wits from being confined in this cottage if he was suggestible to disheveled witches.
He drank the rest of his tea in two big swallows, and then he laid upon the bed, turning away from the fire. He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything other than what it would be like for his hands to entangle in those fragrant waves, his firm grasp tipping back Angharad’s head to bare her neck to his mouth.
THREE
Angharad
The realization that her guest was the son of the man she despised to her very core had shaken Hara. She worried over it, the fear that he would somehow betray her whereabouts coloring every waking moment with discomfort. It put her on edge, and her usual calming practice of walking in the woods and surrendering her anxious energy was not working.
Corvus and the Commander were the reasons she woke in the night with her heart thudding. The river of fear and resentment ran deep, cleaving her soul with hateful waters, polluting all it touched. The only way she had found a semblance of peace after all these years was to dam it up. But the dam was being tested.
As the days passed and the slush melted into mud, Hara contemplated if she should say anything to Gideon.
For the most part he was his usual prickly self, making barbed comments about everything from her magic not helping his wounds heal fast enough to his annoyance with Seraphine’s habit of jumping on his lap.
However, there were some subtle changes she noticed since the night he offered to help her. She was able to perform her household spells in peace now without the tense feeling that she was being watched, and he offered to help her with household chores. He even suggested that she take her bed back, but she had insisted on keeping the sleeping arrangements as they were.
It almost seemed like he was trying to repay her for her kindness in helping him, but she found she did not want to accept his repayment. While his attitude towards her had changed from outright distrust and suspicion to tentative camaraderie, Hara found her feelings had changed towards him as well—and not for the better. Before, she had been curious about him, and she decided that his circumstances, while not honorable, had been repaid to him in kind by his suffering.
Now she was wary.
In the years since she escaped from the palace, Hara tried to keep abreast of the happenings of Montag from travelers who passed through the village.
Empirator Corvus had invested in fantastic modern inventions to lessen Montag’s reliance on magic. The capital city of Perule was said to be wondrous, with never-dimming lights and hot water that flowed indoors on command. But they also produced new weapons, such as machines that sprayed ammunition and incendiary shells that could raze a house in an instant. Norwen and Lenwen had been locked in war for a generation, and Montag had grown rich from it. Their thick forests and deep mines kept them well supplied, and the factories were impressive, but there was something else Montag was known for.
After the coup, any sorcerer who was associated with the royal family was arrested. Commander Falk, Gideon’s father, employed witch hunters to capture any who may have had ties to the Ilmarinen family, down to the chambermaids. Though Hara and Gideon were both children at the time, she thought that surely Gideon was aware of this.
What he did not know was that her mother had been the court Seer, a close servant to the Ilmarinens. She had been one of the victims caught in Falk’s net all those years ago.
Inviting the son of Corvus’ closest servant into her home and fostering him under her roof was nothing short of dangerous. One could argue that Gideon was not like his father, but had he not admitted to ransoming a woman for his own gain? Hadn’t he recoiled from Hara’s spells? Clearly, in this case, the son was no different than the father or the rest of the Montag court.
Every instinct told her to toss him out and spit on his footsteps. But the rational part of her said it would do no good to give him a reason to resent her, and the virtuous part of her recognized that he was still in need of healing.
So each day she went about her chores and she said nothing more about her past. The sooner he was better, the sooner he would leave.
Hara watched as Gideon split wood outside. He had taken over the task earlier in the day while she was at the chopping block.
“Here, let me,” he said, taking the ax from her.
She wiped the hair from her face. “I can manage just fine.”
“I can reach higher on the kindling stack than you can, and I can haul wood without a barrow. Besides, I’m crawling out of my skin being cooped up in that cottage. I’m going soft.”
“Very well. I will not argue if you want to work,” she said, handing him the ax.
He took it and abruptly said, “You should go inside and warm your hands by the fire. You look cold.”
