Page 39 of The Assassin's Bride

Focusing on the needle was difficult. She should have been refreshed after a bit of fun in the village, reassured after seeing there would be niches for her work to fill and ensure she'd have a good life after they reached Danesse and she had a chance to settle. Yet her thoughts kept drifting back to the steel she'd seen in Gil's eyes and the way she'd seen through the illusion the cloak draped over him. It shouldn't have been so transparent. She'd have to check the seams on his cloak next, ensure nothing had come loose. Even a damaged garment would retain its magic, but breaking threads did make it weaker.

His shadow passed over her as he paced the room. She tried not to flinch. He paced like a trapped predator, back and forth across the room. Each step was silent, solidifying the mental image. She'd seen pelts from great cats found farther south, where dense jungles demanded stealthy hunters. That he was dressed in black solidified it more.

When she finished one long seam, she put down her work. “May I see your cloak?”

Gil paused mid-stride. He said nothing, but she saw the question in the way he looked at her.

“I'd like to check something. To be sure the illusions work well together.” It wasn't entirely untrue. They were supposed to build upon each other, but they had to be similar enough that his appearance wouldn't change when a single piece was removed. His cloak, his shirt, the trousers on her lap, they'd all build the same image.

His hand drifted to the clasp and the cloak slid from his shoulders a moment later. The false image she'd crafted fell away like dust as he held out the cloak for her to take.

She accepted it without comment. His demeanor did not welcome conversation. Her brother had been the same way. Whenever Ashvin grew angry or frustrated, he grew solemn, and an unwelcoming shadow followed his every step. It was one of few things about him she didn't miss.

The green cloth was easier to see by lantern light and it didn't take long to check all the seams. Everything was intact, as perfect as when the project left her hands. It had to be something else, then. Some other reason for reality to bleed through the illusion. Admittedly, she knew little about that sort of magic. Forbidden as it was, the power used to weave glamours into garments still held plenty of secrets.

Satisfied by the durability of her work and unsatisfied by lack of answers, she focused on tracing the seams with her fingers and replicating the image she'd created.

Above her, Gil still paced.

It was easier to look at him now. For some reason, she found his true face less threatening; perhaps because it was easier to picture how he'd look when he smiled. Thea glanced his way as he crossed in front of the lanterns yet again. The silence had grown troubling. His voice would be a comfort. “How far is it to Danesse?”

He paused near the door. “Ranor is small. If we encounter no issues, we'll be there in two days.”

“That bodes well for easy trade. The roadways are clear and simple, then?” She tried to smile, but still took the sense he was angry. Maybe if she redirected his thoughts from whatever made him pace like that, he'd relax.

“Simple, and there's little to see in Ranor. Nothing but fields for the sheep and orchards full of pear trees between here and the capital.” He lingered where he was, though he regarded the door with suspicion. It seemed unlikely that anyone might eavesdrop on two simple travelers, but anything was possible.

Thea made a soft humming sound. “Are your boots sheepskin, then? They look thicker than that.”

“Cowhide. The eastern portions of the country are flatter, better suited to letting cattle range. Not in the numbers you'd see in Kentoria, of course. The Ranorsh favor sheep and goats, which are easier to keep on the hills.”

“And pears. An odd assortment of things to keep.” Goats and sheep meant quality wool would be easy to come by, though.

“Agriculture is one of the things I know little about. But I do know pears favor cool and wet climates. You'll have to try the perry. It's one of their finer exports, and one of few that are welcomed in Kentoria. A good quality drink.” He laced his hands together behind his back as he spoke, lending him a businesslike air.

It was better than the pacing. Thea let herself relax.“Is that so? You don't strike me as a drinker.”

“I am not, save when social situations demand it. Substances that dull the senses are unwelcome in my profession.”

“I would imagine so.”

After that, Gil had nothing to say, but he eventually slipped past her to settle on the edge of the bed. She was glad to see him sit, though she wouldn't say it. Without him crossing between her and the light, it was a little easier to see, and without him looming, it was easier to concentrate on her work.

The silence that followed was more companionable. Thea looked over her shoulder once to see him sitting with his elbows on his knees and his mouth resting against his clasped hands, his eyes closed. Thinking, or maybe meditating. As long as he rested, she liked it. That they were once again in a room that sported one bed had not escaped her notice, but she didn't doubt he'd take the floor as soon as she finished her work.

Inch by inch, she worked her way down the long seams for his legs. She put power there, magic to lend endurance and keep him sure-footed. The reinforced knees promised strength and stability. She added loops to hold the straps for his dagger sheaths secure, and deep pockets, just because. Every step of the way, she layered in illusions. It proved a challenge; the illusions on the cloak were sewn into curves, but pants provided only two. Instead, she worked elements of her existing design into any place they would fit. The long seams gave rise to the ordinary looks she'd created; the pockets were meant to store secrets. The front closure, too, though she smirked as she pushed magic into the stitches there. The memory of his laugh when they'd discussed that before warmed her heart.

Last of all, she hemmed the cuffs. They folded twice, sturdy and neat, and the near-invisible stitches she used to fasten them in place let her work in more elements of what should be left unseen.

When the last stitch was in place and the thread knotted and cut, Thea sat back and closed her eyes. She didn't know what time it was, but it had to be late. Her neck and shoulders ached in ways they hadn't in ages and she lifted a hand to rub one of the stiffest spots. There was still the shirt to go.

Strong fingers slid across her shoulder, displacing her hand. She started to question, but Gil pressed into the aching muscle and yielded a groan instead. He shifted to sit behind her, his powerful hands working into each tender pressure point in her back.

“You've done well,” he said.

The simple praise sent a small thrum of delight through her, but she couldn't revel in it now. “Shirts are fast. It shouldn't take long. I'll make something simple, so the fit won't matter as much.”

“How many hours?”

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