Page 27 of Wench

Outside, the murmurs drift back into common talk. Someone laughs quietly. A bowl scrapes a table. Marian lies back and stares at the curved ceiling, at the grain that runs like river maps through the wood. Sleep does not come quickly. Their testimonies have taken up space in her, and space is louder than noise.

She closes her eyes and sees the ring of roots brightening and fading, breath drawn and let go, over and over, like a promise the forest keeps even when no one is listening.

And some deep, dark corner of her heart wonders if she too has something to confess.

* * *

A fretful knocking at her door before sunrise was the last thing Marian wanted.

She lies still at first, hoping the noise will fade, that whoever it is will grow tired and vanish back into the early dark. But the knock comes again, quick and insistent.

Marian rolls to her side, groaning softly into the blanket. The light in the chamber is dim, with the faintest grey spilling in through the window. Sleep had been shallow at best, riddled with fragments of ritual song, the memory of voices unspooling confessions until even her dreams felt crowded.

The knock comes again, sharper.

She swings her legs over the edge of the bed with a grunt. Her face pinches in a wince as the floor bites cold through her bare soles. Her borrowed tunic is rumpled, twisted from restless turning, but she cannot summon the strength to straighten it. Every muscle is leaden as she shuffles toward the door.

‘Who is it?’ she croaks.

‘Allen,’ comes the muffled reply. ‘Do hurry up, will you? Minstrels and patience don’t mix.’

She scowls at the door. ‘Go away.’

A pause, then a low whistle. ‘I’ve braved the humid air to knock politely instead of barging in, and you’d leave me to roast?’

Marian sags against the frame. The thought of seeing him now stirs a bitterness she cannot name.

‘I brought you a present, Mare.’

‘F-f-for me?’ she yawns, suspicion folded into every syllable.

‘No, for the other obstinate girl I rescued in the woods. Yes, for you! Now open the door before I sweat through my tunic.’

Marian unlatches it and steps back, folding her arms tight across her chest. The minstrel slips inside with a gust of muggy air, carrying under one arm a swath of linen wrapped with twine, while he keeps the other arm behind his back. His grin is too wide for the hour.

‘First, your clothes, courtesy of Niamh.’ He tosses the bundle toward her bed, the fabric landing with a thud.

‘I’d hardly call garments a justifiable reason to darken my door before dawn.’

‘How about this instead?’ He pulls his other arm out from behind him.

‘What’s this?’

‘Proof I’m not entirely useless.’

Allen holds the bundle out to her, tenderly pulling its wrapping free to reveal a slim sketchpad bound in rough leather and a fistful of charcoal sticks enveloped in waxed paper.

Her fingers twitch despite herself. She longs to touch the pad, to test the grain of the paper, to smudge the charcoal across her skin until her fingertips bloom black. She locks her hands against her ribs instead, suspicious.

‘No enchantments. No tricks. On my honour as a bard,’ he says with a dramatic bow. ‘I swiped them off Niamh’s dressing table. Figured you might fancy scratching something other than my ears with that sharp tongue of yours.’

Marian blinks. The gift unsettles her. She reaches out before she can stop herself, brushing her fingers over the leather. The pad is sturdy, the paper coarse but thick, begging for lines to be carved into it. Her chest aches with wanting.

‘Does this mean Lox has granted me access to the libraries?’ she asks warily. ‘Will I be working on maps or copying fae folklore?’

Allen’s grin falters. He scratches the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but her face. ‘Ah. Not exactly.’ He exhales, lips twisting. ‘The antlered wonder wasn’t moved by your plea for artistic freedom.’

Her stomach knots. ‘Then why?—?’