Page 66 of Wench

Will chuckles. ‘That’s what he says every time he tries to flirt with a barman and nearly trips over his own lute.’

‘I’ll have you know,’ Allen says, lifting his chin with mock dignity, ‘there are several taverns across the continent where I am still fondly remembered.’

‘For your quick hands or your quicker exits?’ Will asks without missing a beat.

Little John lets out a low grunt that might be a laugh, and Marian finds it easy to ignore the rawness thrumming beneath her sternum. The path ahead winds gently through speckled sunlight, and, for a moment, everything feels easy.

The village stirs with a midday rhythm. Voices lift in chatter from the communal hearths, the scent of roasted roots and herb broth curling through the air. Someone’s mending fishing nets near the stream, while children dart between hanging bridges overhead, their laughter trailing like ribbons in the wind.

Marian slows at the fork in the path that leads up to her quarters, staring up at the familiar arch of her bough visible between two wide-trunked oaks. She turns to the others.

‘I think I’ll rest for a bit,’ she says.

Will nods, their expression unreadable but no longer distant. ‘Eat something, you earned it.’

Allen claps his hands together, toes tapping with theatrical flourish. ‘May your solitude be short, because tonight we celebrate!’

Marian arches a brow. ‘Celebrate?’

‘The Severing, remember?’

She blinks and shakes her head. ‘Of course.’

Will glances toward the path that leads deeper into the village, then back to Marian.

‘You could join us this time,’ they say carefully. ‘Instead of watching from that perch in your room.’

‘Oh yes, please come!’ Allen claps again, grin blooming instantly. ‘There will be music, and vows, and at least three questionable pies. And,’ he leans closer, stage-whispering, ‘you’ll get to watch Will pretend they don’t cry every single year.’

Little John huffs a soft sound. He taps two fingers over his heart, points to Marian and then up through the canopy, where the heart tree’s crown towers, and finally draws a slow circle in the air that encloses all of them. An invitation in gesture: together.

Marian’s throat goes tight. For a heartbeat she can only nod, fingers skimming the new vine beneath her collarbone as if to be sure it’s still there, still warm.

‘What does it entail?’ she asks softly.

Allen spreads his hands. ‘We eat. We sing. The Elders recite the old words, while we cut ties and make promises we’re terrified to keep. Then we weave something new.’

‘You don’t have to speak,’ Will adds, ‘but if you want, you can hand the forest one thread you’re done carrying and let it fall.’

‘I’ll think on it,’ Marian answers.

Little John puts a massive hand on her shoulder, her body sinking with the pat, before he turns and marches back toward the village. The others follow while Marian makes her way up the narrow steps to her quarters.

The door opens easily, and she steps into the quiet. It smells faintly of dried lavender and freshly baked bread. A loaf, still steaming in its cloth wrap, rests beside a bowl of stew on the small table.

And there, in front of it, sits Lox.

For a breathless moment, Marian can only stand still and stare.

He doesn’t just look alive, but whole – cheeks flushed with colour, eyes alert and bright cadmium. There’s a faint sheen to his skin, as if his body is still working to knit itself back together. But there’s no slump to his posture, no grinding jaw or sharp edge of pain darkening the gold of his gaze.

Relief drives the air from her lungs. She’s only just beginning to realize how tightly she’d been holding herself together, how afraid she’d been that he might not have made it through the night.

Lox glances up and a small, crooked smile tilts his mouth. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

She exhales a shaky laugh and closes the door behind her. ‘You’re not nearly pale enough.’

‘I brought you lunch.’ His voice is threaded with hesitation as he gestures to the tray. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’