Finn Ashford's Arc

Chapter 9 of 12

Finn sat at the table and tried to read the room. The lodge was solid. Stone walls, thick beams, a barred door, a fire built for staying. She had not come here for a night. She had come to work, and she had brought her tools with her. His eyes moved past the hearth to a small table set against the wall. Jars of spices stood in a neat row. Dried flowers hung above them on a rack. Animal bones lay across the top, picked clean. A black cauldron sat beneath, and loose gems caught the firelight on the floor around it. "So you're a witch?" Finn said. She looked at him with curiosity in her eyes. "You're not really in a position to be asking me questions, are you?" She held out her hand. He knew what she wanted. The blade at his belt still made him a threat. He drew his knife slowly and laid it on the table. Then the second one from his sash. Both daggers. Matched handles, one red stone, one blue. He pushed them across to her. The last weapons he had carried inside. "Thank you," she said. She gathered them and set them on a shelf behind her, out of reach. She turned to the cauldron and ladled hot liquid into a small clay cup. "No," she said. "I'm not a witch." She crossed back and set the cup in front of him. "Drink." She sat across from him and crossed her legs. The fox fur on her gown shifted at her shoulders. Finn felt his eyes move down her before he caught them. He looked up and met her stare. Sweat rose at his hairline. The old scar above his brow began to burn, a slow heat under the skin he had not felt since the relic. She leaned closer across the table. "Finn," she said, quiet. "Do you remember my name?" He did not. He had met her once, months ago, across a different table. She had asked him what he carried in his coat and he had lied. He had never asked what she was called. He could feel the wrong answer waiting in his mouth. He looked at the cup. He looked at the daggers on her shelf. He looked at her green eyes and told the truth. "No," he said. "I never knew it." She held his gaze for a long beat. Then she smiled, small and pleased, as if he had passed a test he did not know he was taking. "Good," she said. "A liar would have guessed." She tapped the cup. "Drink. Then we talk about what you lost in the woods. I know where it went. You're going to help me get it back." Finn lifted the cup. The heat of his scar had not faded. He drank.