Page 65 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

A gauntlet sheath covers my wrist. I let my sleeve flow over it, concealing the tiny knives Talon left for me with breakfast yesterday morning—along with the special item I asked for—and slip out into the garden.

A cool crispness clings to the air. Mist beads droplets of dew on my eyelashes, and my eyes sting. I rub at them and draw in a deep breath.

Aoife’s windows are shut tight. No whisper of a rustle in the curtains.

I knock—softly at first, then harder.

There’s a long moment of nothing. I almost turn around and go back to my room when a sliver of light breaks the solid sheet of the curtain and Aoife peers out.

I wave and offer a small smile.

The lock on the other side shifts, and she opens her door just a crack.

Her eyes flicker to the cut on my forehead. I know a thin scab crusts along the curve. “It’s healing.”

“I told you it would.”

“You’ll have a scar.” She frowns, pity in her blue eyes.

“I’m alive.” I shrug. A scar is nothing.

“I have a balm that might help,” she offers. “I could go get it—”

“No, that’s not why…” I cough, holding out the small item Talon brought for me. “I wanted to say thank you.”

Aoife glances down at the small bundle of soft suede, keeping the door gap narrow. There’s a dusty, preserved kind of stillness to the room behind her.

The thin blade inside the bundle gleams in the morning light.

“Back home, we give knives to say thank you.” It’s a lie, but there’s no way Aoife will know that. And she seemed so curious about how I trained, how I learned to defend myself. “If you want,” I offer cautiously, letting her think I’m hesitant, “I could show you how to use one.”

I remember the way the other women in the baths and at the First Look stared at her openly—the sneering, the condescension. And I remember the way she flinched, like she feared them.

Could I have given Aoife one of my own knives? Sure. But as much as she could learn to use one, I need mine a damn lot more than she does.

The one I’ve given Aoife is an impressive mimic of Málmar steel. It’s one of the best fakes Finn could have chosen. That and the message Talon passed from her along with it made my heart sing.

Don’t be afraid to get your hands bloody.

With each passing day I survive here, the hope in my chest that I might be able to do this grows a little bit more.

Wariness narrows Aoife’s blue eyes. “What would you want in exchange?”

“Just the chance to talk more.” I duck my head and hope it comes across as embarrassment. “There’s… a lot I don’t understand about this place.”

She tilts her head. “That’s it?”

I nod. “That’s it.”

Old Ones, please believe me.

She trails one finger over the almost flawless blue steel of the blade. “Okay. I’m in.”

“Then get out here.” I arch a brow and glance to her new blade.

She holds the knife like it might bite at her fingertips. “Right now? It’s raining.”

“It’s not raining. It’s spitting.”