Maren Goldweaver's Arc

Chapter 30 of 42

They were a day's walk in when Topper began to drag his boots. He kicked a root, then another. Miller kept the pace. Maren watched the trees and pretended not to hear him breathing loud through his nose. "I've been thinking," Topper said. Maren's shoulders tightened. "Don't." "I don't think I get that good of a cut." He stopped in the path. "Food. A bed. That's what you're paying me. Meanwhile I'm the one walking her back to you. I'm the leash. Without me she runs." Miller turned. "You agreed to the terms." "I agreed before I understood them." Topper spread his hands. "I go back to that camp, I'm a tool. Vera works me till my fingers bleed and calls it shelter. That's not a cut. That's a collar." Maren made herself speak level. "You get food. You get a bed. Nobody hands you to the Registry. That's the cut." "Not enough." "It's what we have." "It isn't." His mouth curled under the mustache. "You have plenty." Miller stepped closer to him. "Walk." Topper walked. For twenty paces. Then his hand shot out and closed around Maren's wrist and yanked her in against his chest. His breath was hot on her ear. His other hand slid to her hip. "You know what would suffice," he whispered. She froze one beat. Then she twisted. Miller was already moving. He hit Topper across the jaw with the flat of his fist and Topper went down hard. Miller followed him to the ground. The rifle strap slid off his shoulder. He drove his knuckles into Topper's mouth, then his nose, then his mouth again. Topper's hands came up and did nothing. Blood ran into his mustache. "Miller." Maren grabbed his arm. He shook her off. "Miller. Stop." She caught his wrist with both hands and pulled. He was heavier than her by half. She braced her boot against his hip and hauled backward until he sat back on his heels, breathing through his teeth. Topper rolled onto his side and coughed red into the dirt. Maren stood between them. She did not let go of Miller's wrist until his shoulders dropped. Topper spit and pushed himself up on one elbow. He looked at Miller. He looked at Maren. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and got to his feet, slow. He picked up his pack. He fell in behind them on the path. Nobody spoke. They walked until the light thinned. Maren's wrist throbbed where his fingers had been. Miller's knuckles were split and wet. Topper limped, silent, at a careful distance. The cut was settled. He would not ask again. He would come with them to the boarding house, do the work on Delia, and walk her back to Vera. Not because Maren had satisfied him. Because Miller had shown him the other price.