Page 59 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“You’d better come inside before the weather changes its mind again.”

12

Vireth

I realize too late that I’m holding Renard’s hand, but for the life of me, I cannot seem to let go as we cross the threshold into what, I’m praying, will not be a string of ill omens.

Damp heat licks at my face as soon as we enter, the warmth stifling after the long day spent in the brutal cold of the village and the mountain pass. The heat from her hearth caresses my skin while melted snow drips from the hem of my cloak onto the uneven stone floor. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves, inhaling a pleasant mixture of peat smoke, rosemary, turnips frying in butter, and old, damp paper from years of rainy mountain moisture.

It is not at all the sort of place I imagined, but then, perhaps I simply expected something as equally earth-shattering as the prophecy that upended my life. A cave lined with bones, perhaps. A crumbling tower lorded over by flocks of ravens. At the very least, more skulls.

Instead, the cottage is comfortable and practical, if a little strange. Bundles of herbs hang drying from the rafters beside strings of dried wildflowers and tiny woven charms made from reeds, feathers, and little animal bones polished smooth with age. Shelves crowd every wall, bowing beneath cluttered rows of candles, glass jars filled with dead things and cloudy liquids, weather-warped books, bowls of stones etched with symbols I don’t recognize, and strange little carvings that look like they were carved by unpracticed hands—or someone half-asleep.

Renard notices my expression while stripping off his cloak near the fire.

“You look rather underwhelmed by your fortune teller,” he whispers, careful to avoid the young woman’s gaze.

“Well, I was expecting something a little more ominous. More atmospheric, at the very least.”

“What were you hoping for? Altars covered in human entrails from honored sacrifices?”

“Now that you mention it, I have just the human sacrifice in mind,” I grumble, glaring at him.

One corner of his mouth lifts. “You may have luck, yet. Perhaps the altar is in a cupboard somewhere and she reserves it for especially honored guests,” he whispers.

The seer snorts softly as she hangs our cloaks beside the hearth, and both Renard and I freeze—chagrinned that she overheard our frenzied whispers.

“The thing about hanging bones from the ceiling is that dusting them became tiresome,” she says.

Renard barks a laugh, and some of the tension eases.

“I applaud your practicality,” I return dryly.

“Allow me to introduce myself properly,” she says. “I am sorry I didn’t have a chance to do so before—at your sister’s bloomday. My name is Ursula.”

Renard executes a perfect bow and offers her a chivalrous smile. For one wild moment, I experience an irrational surge of jealousy that the young and—dare I say, pretty—seer is the recipient of his best behavior.

“An honor, Ursula. I’m Renard.”

“Vireth,” I mutter, surprised by the acerbic tone of my voice. The relief I expected at finding the fortune teller has yet to arrive, or perhaps it hides beneath the layers of frustration, despair, confusion, and hope that have been riding me since the fated prophecy. Resentment, too, because she is the one who has turned my life—my whole world—upside down. And truthfully, I don’t know what I’ll do if she cannot offer me help, or guidance.

The seer’s fox-bright gaze flicks briefly toward me, amused despite herself, before she motions toward the narrow wooden table beside the fire.

“Sit before you both fall over. You look half-frozen.”

She isn’t wrong. The journey down from the pass and then through the village has left my legs aching and every muscle in my back tight as drawn wire. Beneath the careful braids disguising the antlers at my crown, my scalp throbs faintly every few minutes with a persistent pressure. The damnable things feel heavier now than they did in the cave, and I wonder how much more they’ll continue to grow, or if there’s some way to reverse both the antlers—and my fate.

I lower myself onto the bench nearest the hearth while Renard settles opposite me, broad shoulders brushing the wall behind him. The table is small enough that our knees nearly touch beneath it, and my stomach lifts and drops like I’ve just fallen from a great height.

With his wounds all but healed now, I’ve been forced acknowledge that my draw to him is more than that of a healer and a patient. I’ve tried to ignore him and the way his presence settles me and unsettles me at the same time, but it’s become increasingly difficult to do so since the cave. Sharing warmth in the night is one thing, but the absence of his rejection after that, the constant awareness and consideration of my comfort… it’s heady, and I’m trying not to trust it. I don’t want to get used to his smiles, his strength, the way his rough hands threaded so carefully through my hair. We have not talked about that, nor what will happen after this moment—after finding the seer.

When he leaves, as he inevitably will, I will miss more than the thick muscles filling out his form, from the breadth of his shoulders and biceps to the thick thighs and round ass. I’m really coming to dislike how often my thoughts circle back to his hands and—gods—his forearms, roped with corded muscle and decorated with scars.

Nibblebones abandons my shoulder the moment we sit and immediately begins exploring the cottage rafters with scandalous confidence. She scampers along a hanging beam, sniffs disdainfully at several bundles of herbs, then disappears behind a curtain of drying garlic.

“I’m sure you ate at the inn, but this will be rather more… nourishing,” the seer says, ladling something into thick clay bowls and setting them before us without ceremony. Steam curls upward from what appears to be a savory porridge, carrying the scent of rabbit, onion, garlic, heady herbs, and root vegetables cooked down. It smells rich and earthy, and even though we ate a few hours ago, the fragrance is enough to make my stomach tighten painfully. I’m only just realizing how hungry I’ve become since leaving the castle and my life of regular hot meals and varied soothing comforts.

“You should eat while it’s hot,” she says. “It will help restore you after a long, cold journey.”