Page 23 of The Shape of Silence

“Good luck,” she said, for lack of any idea of what else she might say.

He inclined his head once. “Aye. And to ye, Avery Mercer. I thank ye kindly for yer service.”

She studied him a second longer. The morning light was less forgiving than the gray inside. It showed the strain along his mouth and the faint pallor in his cheeks.

Giving her own nod, she turned and went on. The path to the stream was worn beneath her feet, and she followed it blindly, a thoughtful frown hovering while Charlie loped along ahead of her.

Moments later, she dipped the bucket into the deepest part of the burn, the water swallowing half of it with a hollow, glugging sound, ripples widening and breaking against the shore. She steadied the handle and watched the surface settle again, her reflection shivering into shape and then rippling once more.

She wondered if she ought to have offered him something—his own things, at least. The remainder of the oats. His wool blanket. He would have asked, though, wouldn’t he have? If he had needed anything to make his way to... wherever he was bound. He didn’t seem the sort of man to go quietly, wanting.

She drew the bucket up, water spilling over the rim and soaking her boots.

Perhaps he wouldn’t make it very far before sense returned to him. Perhaps he would reach the ridge and no farther. Or perhaps he would vanish entirely, as abruptly as he had appeared, leaving behind only the fur he had flattened and the faint impression of his presence in the house.

Avery closed her eyes, trying to understand what emotion was attached to his leaving. True, she’d been surprised by his announcement, but she’d felt relief as well, as if he were a dinner guest who’d stayed too long into the night.

Standing with the half-full bucket, she decided that was all. A mild surprise and now relief that he would be gone.

***

He’d pushed himself harder and farther before—and on more than one occasion in worse condition than this. True, there had been an immediate threat on those other occasions, steel at his back and men depending upon him, which lent urgency to every step. This trek held no such fire.

Still, before he had gone a quarter mile, he knew the truth of it, that this was a fool’s errand, or, more precisely, a foolish indulgence.

He had no clear sense of where his men might be, nor whether they remained near at all. They could just as easily have widened their search in the opposite direction, following a trail that was not his, or they might believe him dead and have adjusted their movements accordingly. In truth, Morggán didn’t know how many had perished or survived, and that ignorance weighed heavily upon him. To continue in his present state, with no direction and no certainty, seemed less an act of resolve than a stubborn display of pride.

The injury to his ribs protested steadily, each breath tightening beneath the band of bruised bones, and the deep wound in his thigh had settled into something persistent and aching. Pride might carry a man some distance, but it would not restore his strength nor lead him unerringly to where he needed to be.

What peeved him more than the decision to turn back, however, was how little resistance he offered it. He had wrestled far more with leaving her earlier and with the spare manner in which she had accepted his departure. Her “Okay” had held no protest, and her “Good luck” had neither warmth nor acceptance, but something quieter and more impenetrable. As she’d made for the water, the bucket swinging from her hand, he’d turned twice, half expecting that she might pause or call out to him, though he could not have said what words he imagined she might use. Was he expecting her to insist he remain, to question his judgment, to express even the faintest dissatisfaction at his leaving?

The thought had irritated him enough earlier that it might have been the energy behind the first several minutes of his trek. In truth, though, he hadn’t imagined the last he’d seen of her this morning was the last he’d see of her ever. He’d already planned that upon finding or being reunited with his men, he would direct them back to her dwelling and lay at her feet all that he could in appreciation for her aid, despite how grudging some of it had been. Whatever provisions the army had to spare would be given to her, for she had undoubtedly saved his life.

Another truth, which took a little more time to acknowledge, was this: had there been no Avery of the entrancing blue eyes, he would be pressing on still, forcing his body into obedience, angling south or east in search of signs or a trail, unwilling to concede so easily. He would not be retracing his steps toward the shelter of her hut and the narrow clearing that had, in the span of only a day and a half, grown familiar already. He did not consider his return a failure, though he was aware of how easily it might be judged as such. It was strategy, he told himself, the deliberate preservation of strength until it could be used effectively.

Even so, by the time the roofline of her dwelling emerged through the trees, sweat had gathered heavily along his back and beneath his collar despite the coolness of the day, and the strain of the walk had stripped him of any illusion that he might have continued much farther.

“Avery,” he called as he neared the hut, unwilling to startle her if she were within.

The yard lay quiet, the door shut. There was no answer, and he imagined she might be at the woodpile or along the path to the loch, attending to her tasks as though he had never crossed her threshold. The thought carried a faint sting that pride did not allow him to examine too closely.

He crossed to the stump beneath the overhanging eaves and lowered himself onto it with a pained grimace, uncaring that the empty yard bore witness to his faltering. He sat for the better part of half an hour, long enough that when the hound’s approach finally sounded through the brush, his chest no longer labored and the sheen of exertion upon his skin had cooled, though the ache in his thigh remained sharp and insistent.

He saw her before she saw him, her arms today laden with blocks of peat, her stride unhurried, and recognized the precise moment she became aware of his presence. Though she didn’t startle exactly, her gaze sharpened slightly before smoothing again into its habitual reserve. If her step altered with any surprise, it did so by the smallest measure, prompting him to wonder if she might have expected that he wouldn’t have gotten far.

“It seems I’ll trouble ye another night,” he said by way of greeting, and nearly added if ye dinna mind, though the words remained unspoken. He was not accustomed to seeking permission.

She adjusted the peat against her hip before answering, as though the weight required consideration more than his return did. A strand of hair had worked loose from the braid she’d made in it and fell now over her shoulder, catching briefly in the light before she flung it back with a small flip of her head.

“Okay.”

He couldn’t read her tone and didn’t know that word still, couldn’t say that he detected either triumph or relief, but mayhap only resignation.

He studied her a moment longer than was strictly necessary, as always infinitely curious about her. “I dinna go far.”

“No,” she said blandly.

She carried the peat forward, stacking it with the others near the woodpile at his left. Only then did he notice how carefully she had arranged it all. The wood was kept elevated on a rough board to prevent damp from creeping upward, and beneath it, separated cleanly by that same plank, lay the darker blocks of peat. A curtain of bark woven with thatch had been draped along the outer side, weighted at the bottom with stones so that wind would not lift it and allow rain to spoil the supply.