Page 133 of Burn Her They Said
His words unearth anger long-buried beneath the forced suppression of need after need.
“Of course, because I so often choose suffering. Especially when I am so freely given the ability to do anything otherwise.”
Varic’s jaw ticks as he studies me. “The difference being we have control of this carriage. So if you need something, all you have to do is knock on the window.”
“Right,” I say to the sorcerer reminding me of a lifelong history of neglect and abandonment.
He narrows his eyes as he reaches over to close the door, locking me in. We brace as he climbs into the seat behind me, and I resist the urge to look out the window as I make myself promise I can make a request to get my needs met. No matter that it’s entirely out of character, and not something I could ever do before, since Hendry would have cautioned me to do the opposite—a fact which stings the center of my chest.
“Cirrin?” His eyes meet mine with such warmth that it dulls the ache somewhat.
“Yes?”
“Would you—” I pause, until Cirrin’s dark brows raise in encouragement. “Would you please help me fall asleep?”
He reaches across the aisle to take my hands while Malin shifts to wedge himself in the corner and places a round velvet pillow over his lap. Cirrin nods in encouragement as I lean to lay my head on the pillow, with my eyelids drooping.
“Thank you,” I say to Malin, who merely nods, acting as if this is a common occurrence between us.
“Here.” Cirrin releases my hands as he lowers to one knee and unties the laces of my boots. He removes each and places them on the floor, then lifts his chin to Malin.
I cover a long, drawn-out yawn with my hand, then shudder as Fray unfolds a thin gold blanket, which he hands to Malin, who carefully drapes it over me. My lips screw up in the corner in an effort to stave off whatever reaction threatens to surface now that my Guards are treating me with such compassion—an interesting shift after so few days of influence from Varic’s unconventional style of leadership.
Cirrin returns to his seat beside Drusilla with a satisfied smile. “Sleep well. I’ll help you wake at the first stop.”
Malin hums a tender melody as I nod in response, finding myself at a loss for words as the strange waves of sleep drift up my body.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Confrontation
Warm fingertips brush my hair back from my forehead, conjuring similar moments from the past?—
My mother’s frigid fingers play with my hair while I lie back in bed, sick with fever.
My mentor tucks an unruly strand behind my ear as she admonishes, “I need you to focus, Tasch. This is important.”
Varic twirls a lock of my hair around his finger while we lie shoulder to shoulder, collectively staring up at the canvas. “I’ve never told anyone this,” he says, as a smile lifts the corners of my lips.
“It’s time to wake up, Tasch,” Malin says, hurtling me into consciousness.
“Hmm.” I blink back the sleep as his laugh dissipates the farther he moves away.
“May I?” Cirrin asks, and I nod in assent.
The chill of his magic fills me with energy as the distinct line of the afternoon sun slices through the center of the cabin. Cirrin pats me before climbing down to the dusty road, where he pauses next to Fray, who makes a show of moving closer to his friend while putting more distance between himself and Drusilla.
Malin offers his hand, and part of me wishes it were Varic’s—until he comes into view and my heart lurches, because something is off with the way he stands, arms crossed as he looks off in the distance.
Drusilla stares up at me from where she stands next to Fray, seemingly mirroring Varic’s stance, and observing me with unnatural interest.
Which is the main reason I should address Varic’s mood at some other time. Yet my self-preservation skills tend to go dormant when in his presence, and I open my mouth despite my better judgment.
“What is it, Varic?” I pause on the stairs and effectively trap Malin behind me.
“We have stopped for luncheon.” His tone is dry, and he refuses to meet my eyes.
I scoff and reach for the railing just as Varic forcibly offers me his hand, which I refuse to take as I cautiously put my weight on each of the dew-slicked steps.
