Page 69 of Wench

They move toward a table on the far side of the revelry, where Will, Little John, and Allen have already made themselves comfortable. Lox pulls a chair out for her with a courtliness that makes her flush. Before she can reach for anything, he leans close, his teeth brushing her ear.

‘Eat up,’ he sighs, breath grazing the shell of her ear. ‘You’re going to need your strength for what I have planned.’ Heat flares up Marian’s neck, spilling into her cheeks.

She swallows hard, fingers tightening on the edge of her plate. The air between them crackles. For a moment, she forgets the press of eyes on her, forgets the music and the laughter spilling across the clearing.

When she dares glance at him, his gaze burns bright gold in the lantern light. He picks up the bread off her plate and pulls a chunk out of its doughy centre, holding it up to her slightly parted mouth.

‘Trust me.’ He smirks at the way she flusters.

Marian parts her lips further, letting him press the soft bread against her tongue. The crust gives beneath her bite, warm and airy, steam curling against her palate. His fingers brush the corner of her mouth as he pulls back.

‘Good girl,’ Lox murmurs, satisfied, before tearing a piece for himself. He chews slowly, eyes never leaving hers.

She forces her gaze away first. Down the table, a pair of fae women are watching them openly, their expressions sharp as thorns. One mutters behind her hand, and the other tips her head back with a brittle laugh. Marian stiffens.

Lox’s hand finds her thigh under the table. His thumb traces a lazy line higher up her leg, too casual to be anything but deliberate. Heat surges in her belly.

The drums shift, their steady heartbeat climbing, quickening. Voices hush in a ripple that spreads across the clearing. Marian lifts her head just as the Elders rise from each of their respective tables, cloaks glinting in the lantern light. Lox stands as well, his hand brushing the small of her back as he straightens.

The crowd follows suit, murmurs dimming as they all stand. Marian stumbles to her feet, catching herself on the table’s edge, and feels the weight of eyes again – hundreds of them, sharpened by firelight. She looks around and notices how there are far more fae present than in previous nights; several of them look similar to the Elder nearest to them.

Rían of Willowbend clears his throat, his tumble of copper curls bouncing as he lifts his chin.

‘Tonight, we begin the third Greenwake rite.’ Rían’s voice carries without effort. ‘With the Severing, we cut loose what no longer serves us. We bleed out the rot, the silence, the fear, in order to free ourselves, and vow anew that Sherwood will grow stronger for every casting off.’ He gestures for everyone to sit, before he raises a carved goblet, its surface etched with ivy and thorns. ‘I sever my envy,’ he declares. ‘Of what others have and of what I have lost. I will look forward, not back.’ He drinks, and when he lowers the cup the faint shimmer of the wine has stained his lips.

The goblet passes from hand to hand down the long tables. With each turn, someone rises, declares what they’ll sever, drinks, and sits again.

Marian listens as vows unfurl around her. One fae severs an old betrayal. Another, his cowardice. A woman with hair of spun silver severs silence, swearing her voice will no longer be stifled. Some words are bitter, spat like curses. Others tremble, fragile as new leaves. The wine glows faintly with every cleaving, as though with every invisible thread cut, it steeps stronger.

But with every declaration, Marian feels the prickling at her back. Whispers swirl. She hears her own name more than once, hissed in tones sharp enough to pierce.

The goblet has nearly circled the clearing when it reaches their table. Marian is already braced, but the strike comes swift regardless.

A woman with hair like ink drums her long nails against the table, her green eyes sharp. Her voice rises above the throng. ‘Our rites are meant to be private,’ she sneers. ‘Not for humans to spy on, let alone participate in.’

Marian’s cheeks flame and her breath seizes in her chest. The table hums with murmurs, some agreeing, others unsure.

Before she can speak, Lox is already leaning forward, his lips pulled tight in warning. ‘Careful, Araxie.’ His golden eyes burn as he fixes her with a stare that could flay skin from bone.

‘Every moment she stays here, she risks bringing the Sheriff’s wrath.’ Araxie’s gaze rakes Marian up and down, lingering on the vine tattoo curling above her neckline. ‘His fury won’t stop at just her. It’ll fall on all our heads. And for what? A dalliance? Perhaps some of you are willing to wager Sherwood for a single human, but I am not.’

The words lance Marian’s chest. She releases Lox’s hand and fusses with the hem of her shirt, unwilling to sully his reputation any further.

Will slams their palm flat against the table. The sound snaps the air taut. ‘Marian earned her mark, Araxie, one that you have yet to, I might add.’ Their voice carries past the tables, silencing even the whispers. ‘She was accepted by Sherwood the same as any of us. How else do you explain the forest itself parting for her when she ran to save us? How else do you explain her hand steady on a bow none but Lox can wield?’ Their gaze sweeps the crowd, daring anyone to answer. ‘If Sherwood welcomes her, then so should you.’

Their words land like a hammer strike. The hush that follows is brittle. Then, slowly, murmurs resume, quieter now, less certain. Araxie sits back, jaw tight, but she says nothing.

The goblet reaches Allen. He rises with theatrical flourish, clasping the cup to his chest. ‘Since we’re casting off what no longer serves us . . .’ His smile is wicked as he tilts the goblet toward Araxie. ‘I sever the poison of ill tongues. May mine always be sharp enough to defend, but never so dull as to wound my own.’ He drinks deeply, lips curling into a grin as the wine glints against his mouth.

Laughter breaks out across the tables. Even a few Elders smother smiles. Araxie’s face goes rigid, but Allen only shrugs, passing the goblet down the table until it rests before Marian.

Her throat tightens. The goblet gleams with a wink, as though the wine inside waits for her.

The whispers rise again, prickling her skin. She reaches for it, but before her fingers close, Lox’s hand covers hers.

His voice is low, meant for her alone. ‘Our wine is not for mortals, Marian, and the Severing cuts deep. Once loosed, the forest claims what you’ve cast away. There is no taking it back. If you drink, you might lose yourself to it as we do.’

The goblet gleams between them, beautiful yet treacherous. Around her, the others wait, patient and silent, as if they already know she will refuse.