Lyr Thornwright's Arc

Chapter 5 of 8

The fox slept in Lyr's cottage now. She kept it close, away from Cade and the willow tree. But keeping the fox meant keeping Finn too. He came each session to watch her carve, the price for his fine tools. She bent over the pale willowlight wood, blade ready, and felt him behind her. His eyes on her hands made them worse than the curse did. Finn stood by the door, quiet, arms crossed, that gentle half-smile on his face. He was a poor woodworker who feared her and stared anyway. Lyr set the blade against the wood. Her fingers jumped. The tool skipped and gouged a deep scar across the pendant's face. "Out," she said. She did not turn around. "I lent you those tools." His voice stayed soft. "You agreed." "I can't work with you breathing down my neck." She held up the ruined piece. The scar ran through it. Days of work, gone. "Look. Every session. You watch, my hands shake, the wood splits. I've wasted three pieces now." Finn crossed the room. He did not flinch from her glare, though his hands trembled a little. He picked up the ruined pendant and turned it in the light, the way he'd turned the snare cord. "It's not fear of the blade," he said. "It's me. I make it worse." Lyr said nothing. That was the truth, and they both knew it. He set the pendant down on her cluttered workbench, among the metal files and wood shavings. Then he pulled a stool to the far wall, behind her, out of sight. "I won't watch your hands," he said. "I'll face the wall. I only wanted to see the wood take shape. I don't need to see you." She stared at him. It was a strange offer. But he sat, back turned, shoulders down, and waited. Lyr picked up a fresh piece of willowlight. She set the fine blade to it. Behind her, Finn breathed slow and even, saying nothing, looking at plaster. Her hands were still hers, still cursed, but the eyes were gone. The blade bit clean. A curl of pale wood peeled away. She carved for an hour. The pendant's shape came at last, smooth and whole. No gouges. No skips. When she finished the rough form, she let out a breath she'd held for weeks. "It's working," she said. Finn didn't turn. "Good." Then a fist struck her door. Three hard knocks, not soft like the market people. The fox woke and pressed flat against the floor, ears down, trembling. Lyr knew that fear. She set the pendant in the drawer and stood. A man's voice came through the wood, gruff and certain. "I'm looking for a fox," Cade said. "Word is one's been seen at this cottage." Lyr looked at Finn. He had risen, facing the door now. The thing they'd feared had come. Cade was here, and the fox was inside.