Page 17 of The Assassin's Bride

Gil pulled the lone chair from the table and spun it to wedge the back beneath the doorknob. Then he shed his own boots and lowered himself to the floor.

She leaned forward, peering at him. “What are you doing?”

“Sleeping. As I suggest you do.”

“On the floor?”

“That Jaret gave us a room here, where they all hold one bed fit for a single sleeper, was a statement on his part. We are not welcome, and we will leave as soon as we are able.” He settled on his side with his bent arm as a pillow.

“Isn't that uncomfortable?” She didn't know why she asked. If he was willing to give her the bed, she wasn't about to trade.

He chuckled. “I've slept in worse conditions. But also far better. Right now, all that matters is sleep.”

Thea stared at his back until the pattern of his breathing changed. She sank into the bed and pulled the blanket over her shoulders and hips, leaving the damp lower legs of her shoddily-sewn trousers exposed.

There he was, a murderer who should have terrified her, a man on the run after shattering her life and dragging her down with him. He was a monster, but one who feared little, for he lay with his back turned to her and slept soundly despite all he'd done. Yet in the face of all those things, all she could think about was the richness of his voice and the strange kindness in his smile. She'd heard stories of assassins and met cruel men, and when she compared thoughts of them to the man on the floor beside her, she realized there was something wrong—though she could hardly imagine what.

Unsettled, she shut her eyes and tried to sleep.

CHAPTERSIX

When Thea woke,she was alone. Her sewing basket remained, as did Gil's dagger wedged at the window, but the chair that had pinned the door shut was back beside the table. His boots were gone.

Afternoon sunshine peeked between the curtains, promising to aid with her grogginess, so she pulled them back and let the light spill in. A few voices carried from somewhere downstairs, or perhaps elsewhere in the rooms nearby, but she recognized none of them and couldn't make out what they said.

For a time, she lay listening and did nothing at all. Wasting precious time, she told herself grudgingly when she finally pushed herself upright. If Gil was out, it was the best time to work on her trousers. While she was still tired, she was no longer exhausted, and magic felt within reach once more. She stripped off her trousers and dragged her sewing basket onto the bed, then sat cross-legged on the mattress and wrapped the blankets around her bare legs. The fabric of her trousers was stiff and dirty after their slog through the river, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Eventually, she'd reach somewhere she might be able to wash them.

Despite having sewn them in the dark, she congratulated herself on a job not terribly done as she picked out the stitches and settled to working more magic into new, proper seams. She worked faster when she was alone and undistracted and it didn't take long to finish. She considered trying to do something with the raw edges at the bottom of the cut bodice she still wore, then discarded the idea. There was no sense in wasting time repairing something old that couldn't hold much new magic.

Instead, she pulled a piece of cream-colored fabric from the basket and measured out simple blocks to shape into a tunic. It would be practice, she told herself; something to refresh her skills and determine the best way to craft their disguises. It mattered less if her illusions weren't perfect. She could make new garments to redo them later if she chose. For Gil, she only had one chance to craft something good enough that he'd leave her be and never return.

“And any artificer worth their salt will someday trace that right back to you,” she murmured as she double-checked her measurements and made the first cut. Everyone's power bore a unique signature. The more potent the magic, the clearer that signature grew. Yet there was little she could do about that. Illusions were always potent, and dulling it down would only fail to meet his request.

His demand,she told herself. He hadn't needed to say much for it to be clear there was no room to turn him down. She could tell herself she'd chosen this path, but it didn't make it true. Choosing to help was no choice at all when the alternative was the gallows—or the headsman's axe.

By the time the door creaked open, she'd finished her tunic and had just slid it on. Her fingers were cramped, as were her shoulders, but she knew her illusion was effective the moment Gil stepped inside and froze.

“You've changed your hair.” A strange note colored his voice. Disappointment? Thea couldn't fathom why. Her curls shimmered like the brown-black of a starling's wing. She'd always wanted darker hair. Why shouldn't she have it?

Instead of replying, she stuck out one leg. “I finished my pants, as well. I'll be shorter now. At least, at a glance.” Most people could see through an illusion if they knew it wasn't real; it took momentous effort to create an illusion so strong that its power overtook reason. Glamours were weakest when one didn't believe, or when they suspected what they saw was false. In an ironic way, that had made her illusions stronger. If illusions were forbidden in Kentoria, no one had any reason to doubt their eyes.

He was less interested in her pants. “I see.” He shifted to display a plate he balanced on one hand as he closed the door with the other. “I've brought you breakfast. I'm afraid it's cold. And left over after middays, but Jaret's sister prepares a fine meal.”

Thea gathered her supplies and stuffed them into the basket. “Thank you. I'm ravenous, but I didn't want to set foot downstairs until...” She motioned to her outfit.

“Wise. I'm afraid the news has already spread.” He passed her the plate and then pulled out the chair so he could sit. He'd slept less than she had, yet he appeared fresh and vital. At some point, she'd have to ask what sort of conditioning he underwent to achieve that. For now, all she did was tuck into her food.

The meal was nothing special, just roasted vegetables and meat from some sort of fowl, but Thea devoured it before she had time to decide it didn't taste all that good once cold. It must have been delightful when it was warm. She cleaned every bit from her plate before Gil spoke again.

“We will sleep here tonight, and then we will have exhausted Jaret's hospitality. We must resume travel before the sun rises tomorrow morning.” He rubbed his palms against his thighs. “In the meantime...”

“You expect me to sew,” she finished for him.

His shoulders relaxed. “Yes.” Had he feared she might refuse or resist? It wasn't as if she had any other options.

She pushed herself from the bed and sat her empty plate on the table. “We'll start with something simple, then. Stand up.”

He rose before she could move back and she found herself only inches from his chest, looking up at him. Her heart leaped into her throat at the same time her stomach dropped. She'd known he was tall, but to be so close made him loom over her like the red granite walls of Samara's palace. He was giant, and every inch of him exuded the sort of violent strength she could only pray she'd never see. Her pulse soared as fear gripped her chest and threatened to tear her apart. Her knees wobbled and she stumbled back a step before his hand shot out to stop her.

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