Sylvara Thornwhisper's Arc

Chapter 5 of 8

The child's grip tightened on Sylvara's elbow. Lavinia nudged the tavern door open with her nose. Warm air pushed out. Sylvara smelled honey, wet wood, and something green burning low. She stopped on the threshold. Whoever had followed her was inside. If she stepped in blind and looked at the wrong face too long, she would show them she did not know them. That was all a hunter needed. "Wait," Sylvara whispered. She crouched behind the doorframe. Her wings hung useless down her back. "One of them in there is mine. One is not. If I pick wrong, I'm done." Lavinia's ears flattened. The rose behind her ear had gone pale. "My sight is still cursed. I can't read the room for you." Spore Willowveil put his bare foot flat on the tavern's plank step. He closed his eyes. The mushroom caps at his shoulders opened once and stilled. "Floor talks," he said. "Give me a breath." He hummed, low, under his teeth. Sylvara felt the plank under her knee tremble. Dust lifted from the seam between two boards. "Four people sitting," Spore said. "One at the bar. Three at a table by the window. The one at the bar is heavy on the right foot. Keeps shifting. Waiting on the door." "Waiting for me," Sylvara said. "Table's easy. They've been there hours. Boots dry." He opened his eyes. "Bar stool is wet under it. Came in from the road tonight." Sylvara's chest went tight. "Which side of the room?" "Left as you go in. Under the shelf with the bottles." She made herself breathe. She could not walk in and stare at the bar. She could not walk in and avoid it either. Both would say the same thing. "Lavinia," she said. "Go to the bar. Beg scraps. Sit at his feet. If he flinches, we know." The fox slipped inside. Sylvara counted ten heartbeats. Then she stepped through the door with Spore at her elbow, eyes on the barkeep, only on the barkeep, as if she had never wanted anything but a drink and a bench. A stool scraped. To her left. Under the bottle shelf. A man stood halfway up, then sat again fast, because Lavinia had settled across his boots and was staring up at his face with pale, unblinking eyes. He looked at the fox. He looked at Sylvara. His hand went to his coat and stopped there. Sylvara knew him now. She did not know his name. She knew the shape of the shoulders that had walked behind her since the meadow. She crossed to the far table by the window and sat with her back to the wall. Spore climbed onto the bench beside her. Lavinia stayed on the man's boots like a weight. He could not leave without moving the fox. He could not move on Sylvara without leaving the stool. She had him pinned, and he had her named, and the night was only starting.