Page 49 of Wench

‘Damn the Council,’ Lox cuts in, his voice dangerous. ‘Let them choke on their law if they wish. My word stands. If you want to go, I will let you. No guard will hinder your step. No hand will close around you.’

The idea should spark relief, but instead her chest twists. ‘I . . .’ She cannot form the rest.

‘But,’ Lox lowers himself until his gaze is level with hers. ‘If you choose to stay,’ he offers, ‘then you will not remain defenceless. I will see to it that you have the means to protect yourself. Not scraps of borrowed strength, but your own. If teeth find you, you will bare your own. If blades seek you, you will cut deeper. You will never again taste the helplessness those men tried to force you to claim.’

Her heart stutters, wild against her ribs at the intensity of his gaze. ‘You would teach me?’

‘If your father made you obedient, then I’ll see to it that Sherwood makes you dangerous. No one will put fear in you again.’ His eyes catch the firelight, green kindled to gold, resolute as forged steel.

Something in her chest cracks. Fear, longing, and gratitude tangle together until she doesn’t know which is which. She swipes at her cheeks, but the tears come faster.

‘You don’t know what you’re promising,’ she whispers.

‘I know that Marian Hallomere will never bow her head again unless it’s by her own choice.’

ChapterFifteen

It took three days before Marian could move without wincing; appallingly long by fae standards, but astonishingly quick by mortal measures. The days since the attack have blurred together, a cycle of restless nights and stifling days.

She dreams of hands pinning her, of laughter pressed hot against her skin, of steel dragging across her chest. She wakes tangled in her blanket, drenched in sweat, breath caught halfway between a scream and a sob. But each morning she rises with a sharper edge, more determined to claw back the sense of safety that was taken from her.

Lox has not visited her.

Not on the first morning, when her bones felt hollow and she moved back to her own room. Not the second, when she sat at the window sketching the knots in the heart tree, to keep from shaking. Not the third, when she managed to wash her own hair and braid it without whimpering.

But she can feel him watching her, caring for her in his own way.

Fresh parchment and charcoal sticks on her windowsill. A new set of bandages folded neatly beside her washbasin before she even thinks to ask for them. Each gift accompanied by a tiny fox sculpture made from whatever Sherwood had at hand. One carved from knotted twigs, another woven from blades of grass, and one shaped out of river clay and dried smooth by sunlight. All of them no larger than her palm.

And every day, without fail, three meals appear outside her door. Knowing he’s still bound to his oath gives her the freedom to eat without worry; still, his absence cuts sharper than she dares to admit. The silence between them feels deliberate; a penance Lox has chosen for both their sakes.

She tells herself it’s better this way, that distance makes things simpler. But the lie sits awkwardly in her chest.

On the fourth morning, his gift arrives with a knock thumping at her door. When she opens it, Little John fills the frame: broad as a gate, hair braided back, the cut at his thigh bound in fresh linen. His clear meadow-green eyes tip down to the line of her shoulders, the mark at her chest, then back up. Allen slips past his elbow, all restless and bright, a lopsided smile that tries to hide concern.

‘We’re here on physicians’ orders,’ he chirps.

Marian chuckles. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The healers said you can move, so long as you don’t try to climb out your window again or punch Will in the mouth. I argued for the second, but alas.’

They push past Marian toward the centre of the room. Little John unrolls a woven mat and gestures to Allen, who pulls out two identical mats from under his arm, unfurling them beside one another.

‘I don’t understand.’

Allen tucks his hands behind his back. ‘Lox tells us that we’re to instruct you in the ways of defence, so that’s what we’re here to do.’

Little John sits on his mat and the floor shudders. He pats the one beside him and Marian stifles a laugh before joining them. He taps his own chest with two fingers and breathes in so slowly that his ribs barely shift. He holds the inhale, lifts one big hand in a counting gesture – one . . . two . . . three – then opens his fingers to let the breath go in a long, soundless stream.

Marian’s brow furrows as she looks to Allen for guidance.

Allen’s eyes flicker gold; whatever message passes between them is quick. ‘First lesson,’ he tells her, planting himself by the window where a pale square of light spills over the floor. ‘Air is a weapon and a balm. Use it or it will use you.’ He points to Marian’s sternum. ‘Translation: if that is where your panic lives, then we’re going to teach you how to manage it.’

Little John scoots closer to her, their knees almost touching. He sets a palm to his own belly and nods for her to mirror him. Marian does, wincing at the tug beneath the dressing. He shakes his head gently at her position, then moves her hand lower, with surprising delicacy, until her palm rests where breath should begin.

He inhales again through his nose, slow enough that she can watch the rise begin beneath his wide hand before it expands through his chest. He holds it, eyes never leaving hers, then releases in a stream so measured, it could have been carved into the air itself.

Marian tries to follow. The inhale shudders, then catches halfway up her ribs. Already her shoulders are climbing; quickly her throat feels tight. She exhales too fast and sends herself into a fit of coughing.