Page 65 of Wench

Marian glances down. ‘I don’t smellthatbad, do I?’

Allen chuckles and shrugs. ‘You smell mostly fine, but it isn’t about dirt, love.’

Will crouches beside the pool, fingers trailing through the water. ‘You cleanse so that what remains is yours alone. The skin must be honest before the ink can bind; think of it as meeting Sherwood without pretence.’

Marian stares into the water. The reflection that looks back at her is barely familiar, as if the woman she used to be is still deciding what to become.

Allen lifts a brow, wicked amusement dancing across his features. ‘We’ll give you privacy, unless of course you’d prefer an audience. I promise to hum something tasteful.’

Will smacks him lightly on the shoulder before they turn and march back the way they came.

As soon as they step beyond the cave’s entrance, Marian gathers her courage. One layer at a time, she peels away the fabric and steps into the pool.

The first kiss of cold water bites then burns. Her skin prickles and her pulse stutters, but she doesn’t stop until her entire body is submerged.

She scrubs herself raw. Mud, sweat, the fine ash of the forge that seems to live in her pores – it all sluices away. The deeper she sinks, the lighter she feels, as though the weight she’s carried has been coaxed loose from her flesh.

What remains is something rawer, truer.Hers.

As she dresses, the others filter back in and walk past her to where the floor widens into a shallow dais. They stop in front of a stone basin filled with ink dark as river silt. Will lights something that fills the cave with the scent of juniper and sage.

Allen steps up beside her.

‘The mark will sting, but it’s not unbearable,’ he whispers. ‘We mix the ink with sap from the oldest tree in Sherwood and water from this sacred cave, which binds the story to your skin.’

Marian nods and steps forward, pulling her skirt up before lowering herself in front of the basin. The rock cuts into her knees, but she relishes the bite of pain.

‘Where will you take it?’ Will asks.

Marian doesn’t hesitate. She presses a hand lightly to her chest where the still-pink scar curves across her sternum.

‘Here,’ she says softly, fingers splayed over bone and skin and history. ‘I want it close to where I hurt.’

Will picks up a carved bone needle from beside the basin and dips it into the ink. The first puncture sings like fire across her skin, but she doesn’t flinch. The pain is pure. A promise, just as they said. Will’s hand is steady as they begin to outline a pattern of curling leaves, a single thorn, and the twisting vine they rest upon.

Allen changes positions with them after a time, taking over where Will leaves off. His needle traces soft tendrils that spiral from the stem, reaching outward across her chest in delicate arcs.

Marian takes long inhales through her mouth before pushing them out in short bursts, reminding herself that this pain is a gift.

Soon, it’s Little John’s turn.

He kneels beside her in his comforting, stoic peace and lifts the needle with fingers large and sure. The steadiness of him wraps around her like a shield. Where Will’s lines were precise and Allen’s expressive, Little John’s strokes are bold. His thorns trickle downward, curling low over her heart as if to guard it.

Little John wipes the last of the ink away with a square of moss-soft cloth and then places a hand gently over the mark. The tattoo smarts, the sensation like bark splitting to make room for bloom.

‘It is done,’ Will says.

Marian takes a deep breath, and it feels like it belongs to someone new. When she looks up, the three of them are watching her not like a stranger, or a guest, or even a survivor, but like one of their own.

And for the first time since entering Sherwood, Marian feels rooted and chosen and real, as if this place has begun to make space for her, not in pity, but in purpose.

The weight of the ritual lingers as they make their way back to Elswyth.

‘I dare say mine might be the prettiest,’ Allen remarks, tossing her a wink.

Marian snorts, swatting his arm. ‘You were shaking the entire time.’

‘From artistic fervour,’ he insists, clutching his heart. ‘The muse was upon me.’