Page 20 of Wench

She forces her eyes up to his, though her stomach knots so tight she fears she might retch. His gaze is unrelenting. It pins her, scours her, demands she be seen and weighed, and yet offers nothing back. No flicker of what he’s decided. No glimpse of mercy.

He squeezes once and his eyes flash gold.

Every instinct screams at her to wrench away, to bite his hand if she must, but to what end? What good would it do her if she falters now?

When Lox finally speaks, his voice is low, deliberate. ‘She is mortal.’ His hand lingers beneath her chin, steadying. ‘And mortals are . . .fragile. They hunger, they burn, they die. In their brief span, they grasp with greedy hands and leave deep scars. Aife is right. Your kind have cut more wounds into this forest than it may ever heal.’

Marian’s pulse trips at his words, shame pressing cold against her skin. She wants to scream that she is not like them, that she has not swung the axe or ordered the mines to bleed Sherwood dry. But the words choke in her throat. Because what would they matter? She is her father’s daughter. That stain clings, no matter how fiercely she might scrub. ‘And yet,’ he continues, his gaze unblinking, ‘mortals are also fire. They survive wars, endure plagues, rise from ash where wiser things would only decay. To dismiss one out of hand is as dangerous as to trust one too freely.’ His thumb presses lightly against her jaw, before he finally withdraws his hand. Marian’s breath rushes out, but the sudden absence burns hotter than the touch itself. Lox turns back to the Council. ‘This one carries fire in her bones. Fire can raze. Or it can cleanse. Only fate knows which she will become.’

Rían chuckles, leaning back further in his chair. ‘You always did love the long odds, Loxleigh.’

The others shift uneasily, feathers rustling, knuckles drumming, but none challenge him outright.

‘She will stay until the king returns from his holy war and peace can be formalized,’ Lox declares at last, his tone brooking no argument.

The decision slams through Marian like a blow. Her breath rushes out, shaky and uneven. Relief swells in her chest but quickly curdles. She should feel triumph at surviving this judgment. Instead, dread coils through her.

Lox resumes his seat at the head of the table. His eyes never leave her as he settles, as if to remind her the reprieve is his gift alone.

‘And what, in all of Albion, am I expected to do until the king returns from the Crusades?’ Her voice slips out sharper than she intends, frayed with the raw edge of her nerves.

Her words ripple across the chamber, too loud in the hush that follows. Heads turn. A few Elders exchange looks as if a sparrow had hopped onto their Council table and pecked at their fruit.

Lox’s lips pull into a thin line. ‘You will do what all humans do, despite our many prayers to the contrary – endure.’

A brittle sound leaves Marian’s throat before she can swallow it. ‘Endure what, precisely? A cage instead of the gallows?’

‘Many would count that a mercy.’ His voice is even and infuriatingly calm.

‘You call a locked door mercy and expect me to bend the knee in gratitude.’

‘Name it a cage if you like. But a cage is also a shelter during a storm.’ His tone does not change, yet the line lands like a thrown stone. ‘Consider which you prefer while you measure your pride.’

‘If she has wit enough to spit at your mercy,’ Onóra scoffs, ‘then she has wit enough to find the gate. Put her outside the wards and let the wolves take her.’

‘Or keep her where we can see her.’ Rían laughs, lazy as a cat on a sun-warmed sill. ‘Nothing turns a nuisance into a lesson like assigning chores.’

Aife considers Marian as if weighing a new bow. ‘Work her hands, not her knees. If she is to stay, let her learn something that serves us. Something useful.’

Every eye feels like a nettle wriggling beneath Marian’s skin. If she must live inside this net they have strung around her, then she will learn its pattern.

‘I can draw well enough,’ she says, surprised at how steady the words sound. ‘Give me charcoal and parchment, and I can map trails, mark crossings, render what I see. If you keep histories, I can copy them cleanly. If you don’t, I can begin them.’

Marian refuses to be an idle pawn in their games. If she’s to play, then she will trace every roofline and root-bridge. Count stores, measure paths, remember names. If she is to barter for freedom from her betrothal, she will need more than defiance. She will need proof. A ledger of fae truths that only she can deliver to her father.

Onóra’s jaw hardens. ‘The human offers to set our village to paper? Her map will be a knife drawn slow.’

‘Tell me, mortal . . .’ Lox stares, the corners of his perfect mouth lifting. ‘If our places were reversed, and I staggered through your father’s gates with blood on my sleeves and mud in my hair, would your people have bathed me, clothed me, and asked what trade I preferred?’

Marian’s tongue sticks to her palate. She imagines iron hinges and the stink of torches, the faces of men who wear law like armour. She imagines what they would do to someone like him.

He watches the answer form and die behind her lips. ‘I thought not.’

Fire rises up her neck. She hates the prickle of it, hates that he can draw shame from her.

‘Enough debate. I will find an appropriate task for our guest. This meeting of the Council is concluded.’

The chamber empties around her. Vines slide against wood as Elders rise and file toward the door in a slow procession. Marian does not track their faces. She keeps her focus where it has been since the verdict fell.