Page 15 of Veil of Web and Ruin
Still, I can barely offer her an audible reply. ‘I … I …’
As she meets my gaze, I notice the peculiar colour of her eyes. Such a deep brown they border on garnet red. Yet as I try to get a closer look, I notice how her attention shifts to my hair. Fuck.
‘Oh … Gods be kind to me,’ she murmurs quietly.
A sliver of weight falls in my stomach. So many times I’ve heard that response, and it normally comes before they back away. That’s the best result.
The less preferable one is when they start yelling at me. Yelling at me for being the Queenkiller’s family. Cursing my mother’s innocent name.
Once or twice it’s even resulted in me taking some punches.
Backing away with a shocked look is a far better result, but rather than leaving the way I expect her to, the aged woman moves closer and places a hand on my shoulder.
‘Sit down?’ she says. ‘You should sit down. Come.’
‘No, not—’ I tell her, looking around me. ‘I can’t.’
My heart drums against my ribs as my eyes scan the patrons. Most of them are standing or sitting, clanging their tankards together while chatting and laughing. But one or two are already passed out drunk, slumped on chairs or the ground. People sidestep them as they skirt past.
They’re the ones I can’t look away from. It’s as though I’m expecting him to be there.
Father.
There were so many times that we’d find my father lying cold in taverns just like this one, his breathing so shallow it was hard to tell if he was alive. I’d have to feel around for a pulse, just to check. Just to be sure.
I remember wondering what I would do if one day there wasn’t a pulse. Would it be a relief? One less burden I wouldn’t have to deal with? That was what I thought. That yes, it would be a relief.
That was, until the very next week, when it finally happened. When no amount of shaking or throwing water over him stirred him from his drunken stupor. Because for the first time it was not drink that gripped him, but Mortidem himself.
But there was no relief. Just more loss.
And now the guilt of that thought cripples me.
After all the heartbreak I’ve been through, I didn’t know it was possible to feel any more, but guilt still gnaws at my gut, and I keep thinking that maybe Father knew. Maybe he somehowknewI’d had that thought. That I felt life would be easier without the burden of him, too, once Mother had gone.
I tell myself there was no way he could have known. Father was a wind weaver – an exceptionally formidable one, yes, but there was not an element of mind magic in there. If he had known my thoughts, it would only have been because my face had betrayed them.
I know it is just guilt that makes me feel this way. At least, the rational part of my brain does. The other part though … the one held fast by loss and pain … that one has a harder time believing.
‘Love?’ the woman says to me again, dragging me out of the dark recesses of my memories.
This time I look at her properly, noticing her thin cloak of deep purple. It has several holes along the hem and hood, but it has a hood, which is better than anything I have. And truthfully, I’d much rather borrow one than steal one.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, thinking quickly and offering a smile. ‘I want to go to Etta’s temple to pray, but I can’t get into the third.’ I gesture to my hair. ‘I don’t suppose I could borrow your cloak, could I? I’ll bring it back.’
She tilts her head to the side, as if observing me in a manner that goes beyond simply what the eyes can see. ‘Yes, you will, won’t you?’ she asks in a way that tells me it is no question at all.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and an unease churns through my stomach, and I’m about to say not to worry, that I will find another solution, but before I can, she’s already pulling the cloak from her back.
‘Of course you can borrow it, child. Really, it is the least I can do.’
‘I … I …’ There’s something about the way the woman looks at me that unnerves me. Maybe it’s the fact that she hasn’t sworn at me or thrown something at me? I’m not used to kindness these days.
I know well that any gift inevitably has a blade buried in it, but if this gift is barbed, I can’t see how.
‘Thank you,’ I tell her, stretching out my hand for it, but she wraps it around my shoulders herself, even going so far as to clasp the button at the top.
‘Take care, my child,’ she says. ‘I’ll be here when you return. To talk.’
