Page 48 of Sword & Shadow
She took it and stood, hiding her hand under her cloak. “Jonn and I are going on a walk,” she announced.
“A walk?” Auden asked warily. “At night?”
“Auden,” Ilain chided.
“What?”
Rafferty sniggered. “I believe ‘walk’ is married people’s code for ‘time alone.’”
“Shut up,” Evylin said, but she grabbed Deckard’s hand and started for the trees.
The ruddy light of the fire faded behind their backs as they stepped farther into the foliage. In the night, the forest looked like an emerald shadow. Though the rain had stopped, remnants of its deluge dripped from the tree leaves and pine needles.
When they were thoroughly out of sight, Evylin dropped his hand. “You owe me,” she said, then took a vicious bite out of her bread.
Deckard motioned to the mutilated slice. “I’ve already paid you.”
Her jawline grew taut with irritation. “They think we’re out here...kissing.”
He found her disgruntlement rather cute. “Evylin, we’re married. They think we’re out here doing much more than that.”
“You owe me more than a slice of bread.”
Deckard set his hands on her shoulders. “Tell you what: While I’m gone, think of what you’d like in payment, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Anything?” she asked.
“Anything.”
She scanned him. “Hm. Good enough.”
Backing away, Deckard dipped his head in thanks. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Don’t take too long,” she called.
He waved in acknowledgment before heading deeper into the trees.
In the darkness, it was harder to see the overgrown roots and tangled underbrush. Deckard moved carefully onward, searching for a good spot to sit and think. Or pace and think, as he was more apt to do. Somewhere clear and open, with plenty of space to spar. The sort of place that Hewitt would have taken him to train. A rather large request for the thick Waulden forest.
After several minutes of searching with no luck, Deckard allowed himself to stop. He couldn’t stay out too long, and he didn’t want to waste precious time working his way back to camp. Nor did he want to walk so far out that he lost his way. He’d come just far enough that no one would hear him talking to himself, and he’d intentionally checked behind him regularly to ensure that Evylin hadn’t followed him.
Secure in his solitude, Deckard slumped against a densely rooted oak. “I’m not sure what to do,” he muttered to himself.
“What’s happening now?” Hewitt asked, the vision appearing across from him by a tree.
“Nothing new,” he said. “Something is just off. Evylin can’t have gotten over you so quickly.”
“She’s still acting happy?”
Deckard nodded.
“It’s a farce,” Hewitt growled. When did that deep grumble of the man’s voice become so reassuring? “She holds onto people too fiercely for that. It’s why she’s so selective. She can’t risk choosing them for them to disappear.”
“She’s not that good at pretending,” Deckard said. “Or at lying.”
“Maybe you just don’t want to see the truth.”
“But I’m actively seeking it,” he argued. “I’m genuinely trying to tell if she’s moved on or if she’s faking it. And I can’t see any way that this return to her good-humored self is a façade. Not when she hasn’t broken one single time.”
