Maren Goldweaver's Arc

Chapter 22 of 42

They kept to the shadows past the market stalls. Miller walked close on Maren's right, his palm flat against the small of her back. The touch was steady, warm through her coat. She had not realized she was shaking until his hand stopped it. Topper walked ahead of them, whistling, hands loose at his sides like a man who owned the street. Every step he took past a village notice made her stomach tighten. One word from him at the wrong stall and the guards would be on them before dusk. Miller stopped them behind a stack of crab traps near the tavern. "Wait here." He looked at Topper. "You too." Topper spread his hands and grinned. "I'm a guest, blacksmith. Guests behave." Miller went inside. Maren watched the tavern door and counted breaths. Gisela leaned against the wall beside her, arms crossed. Kato crouched low, eyes on the alley mouth. Topper studied Maren's face like he was pricing it. "Stop looking at her," Gisela said. Short. Flat. Topper laughed and turned away. Miller came back with bread wrapped in cloth, a wedge of hard cheese, and three brass keys on a ring. "Three rooms. Above the kitchen. Back stairs." They climbed the narrow staircase one at a time. Miller unlocked the first door and tossed a key at Topper. "Yours. Stay in it." "Alone? You wound me." "One word downstairs about her and I come through that door." Topper touched two fingers to his brow and stepped inside. The lock clicked. Gisela took the next key from Miller's hand before he could offer it. She grabbed Kato's sleeve and pulled him through the second door. "Goodnight." The door shut. The bolt slid. Maren stared at it. "Gisela—" "She's asleep," Kato called through the wood. Then a pause. "Or pretending." Miller held up the last key. He did not smile. He did not apologize. He only waited. Maren took the key and opened the door. The room was small. One bed. One window shuttered against the cold. A basin on a stool. Miller set the bread and cheese on the stool and turned to face her. He looked at her the way he had looked at her on the whale's back, when they first realized they had lived. "You're pale," he said. "I'm fine." "You're not." She opened her mouth to argue. Nothing came. Her hands were shaking again. Topper's breath was still on her cheek. Her face was on every wall in the village. Her sister's file was at the bottom of the sea. Miller crossed the room in two steps and pulled her against his chest. She broke. She cried into his shirt without sound at first, then with sound, her fingers knotted in the linen at his back. He did not speak. He held her and let her ruin the front of his shirt. Six months of not crying came out of her in one room above a stranger's kitchen, and when she was empty, she was still standing, and he was still there.