Page 114 of Starside

I sigh.

This is the best soup I’ve ever had. And he’s not letting me fucking enjoy it.

I gently place my spoon back into my soup. Slowly, I turn toward the annoying warrior. Voice sweet as honey, I say, “I won it when an immortal idiot interrupted my dinner.”

The bar goes silent.

Shit. You know, I probably shouldn’t have said that. But I did, so I lift my chin and don’t let a hint of my instant regret reach my face.

A second passes. Another.

Then the grin returns. The immortal warrior puts his hands up, stands, but in his eyes I see the shadow of something like fury, that I would dare stand up to him. Me, an insignificant mortal.

Fuck. And I was trying so hard to be pleasant.

The bar doesn’t return to its full swing of conversation. I feel eyes on me as I finish the rest of my soup. Even the barmaid is looking at me with a mixture of respect and pity that tells me I picked the wrong knight to talk back to. All I want to do is go back to my room, lie in front of the hearth and pass out, but the group of warriors is still there. Still glancing over at me. I don’t want them to know which room I’m sleeping in.

So I leave the bar and slip out into the rain-slicked streets. I’m grateful when I don’t hear steps behind me.

It doesn’t take me long to reach the immortal woman’s house. The light is on. Through the weathered window, I see her sitting at a table, poring over a book, reading by the light of a few scattered candles.

Before I can think better of it, I rap my knuckles softly against the glass.

Her head lifts immediately. Her eyes are fierce and protective—and they only slightly soften when they see it’s me. For a moment, I wonder if she isn’t going to let me in. She seems to be leaning in that direction. Then, with a sigh, she stands and walks over to the door. Opens it.

“Has there been trouble?” she asks. Her eyes flit up, toward where the boys sleep, and I know she’s likely regretting potentially having brought danger to her door.

“No,” I say quickly. There wasn’t really trouble … I hope. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She frowns. “Right. I have something for that, actually, if you want to take it.” With more than a little trepidation, she moves to the side and lets me in. The moment I step inside, the heat of the hearth hits me. My shoulders drop. Tension leaves me, in a rush.

This … this feels like a home. A place worn down by memories. I can see them in the scuffs in the floorboards, in the scratches on the walls, in the sagging of certain cushions on the furniture, in the drained color of the carpet left near the window. The house is quiet. The boys are sleeping. But as I walk through to the living room, I can almost hear laughter stored in between the floorboards. This house wears its memories. Just like mine did.

Glass clinks as the immortal woman rummages through rows and rows of vials. She searches with deft fingers, a fold between her brows, until she produces a violet liquid. “There,” she says. She turns to me. “Open your mouth.”

I blink at her.

She cocks her head at my hesitance. Her look says, If I wanted to harm you, I could have done it a long time ago.

It’s true. She was armed when we met, after all. And though I lied about why I’m here … my inability to sleep isn’t a lie at all. We have a long day ahead of us. My exhaustion could mean the difference between life and death.

I open my mouth. Two drops pierce my tongue.

Then she’s putting the vial away. I’m swallowing something that tastes faintly like flowers. “You’re … a healer.”

She nods.

It makes sense now. Why she would see knights often. And, judging from the behavior of the ones at the inn, it also makes sense why she would want to keep her children away from them.

She sits back down in her chair, the wood gently creaking. Then, a bit warily, she motions to the seat in front of her table, a simple stool. “The elixir will take a little while to work. Sit.”

Slowly, I do. She studies me. “You’re on the quest, then?”

I nod. No use in pretending otherwise. She looks me over. I wonder what she’s seeing. The undernourishment? The lack of any real, true muscle? The cuts already on my cheeks and hands?

“I assume … I assume you have a good reason” is all she says. A good reason for throwing myself into near-certain death for a cup of magic are the words she likely meant.

I can see in the shadow of concern on her face that she doesn’t think I’ll make it until the end. I can’t blame her.