Page 48 of The Shape of Silence

“He did nae! He said ye cheated at dice,” Tormod reminded him gruffly.

“Aye. And my mam raised nae cheater.”

Finlay snorted out a burst of laughter. “Ye broke his nose.”

“Ye struck him wi’ a stool,” Eòin reminded him.

“A tactical decision,” Alasdair acknowledged with a straight face.

“And then ye hid behind Tormod,” Finlay goaded.

“Aye, another tactical decision.”

At that, Avery laughed outright for the first time all evening, the sound unrestrained, though sadly too brief.

Sweet Christ. The sound struck Morggán like a blow through the gaps in his armor.

Her hand flew almost immediately toward her mouth afterward as though she had forgotten herself entirely, blue eyes widening faintly before yet again they darted instinctively toward him.

And there it was again, that unconscious seeking of him. Morggán scarcely heard anything that was said next. He was too occupied watching the way firelight danced across her face and being enticed by the brightness in her blue eyes.

***

If someone had told her that morning that she would spend the evening seated beside a fire surrounded by men who looked more medieval than real—who were armed to the teeth besides—and that she would enjoy herself, Avery would have laughed in their face.

And yet she had.

Not every moment perhaps. There had been stretches where she scarcely knew where to look or what expression to wear upon her face while the men argued over things so foolish she often lost track of the point entirely. Several times she had become aware of her own silence and wondered if it appeared strange to others, only for someone else to begin speaking loudly enough that no one could possibly have noticed her lack of contribution at all.

But somewhere along the way, she had stopped wishing herself back inside the house.

The realization crept over her slowly while she sat listening to Alasdair torment Eòin over whether a man thrown from his horse still technically counted as one of the mounted cavalry. She found herself warm from the fire and pleasantly full from the thick stew and soft-as-heaven-on-the-inside bread. Charlie had drifted freely between the men all evening, accepting scraps and scratches behind the ears as though he was long familiar with them.

A strange ache rose in her, something she couldn’t immediately place. For one odd, drifting moment she found herself thinking of crowded school cafeterias and noisy holiday gatherings at her aunt’s house where cousins shouted across tables while adults argued cheerfully over one another in the kitchen. The memory came faint and disjointed now, worn thin by time, yet the feeling of it remained strangely immediate, the simple, easy warmth of belonging among other people.

She hadn’t realized until tonight how long it had been since she sat among voices without feeling she ought to flee from them. Ten years in this forest and in this life, five of them alone, had pared her existence down to survival and silence so gradually she had ceased noticing the absence of everything else.

Yet sitting there beside Morggán while his men bickered and laughed around the fire, something deep within her recognized the shape of ordinary companionship with a familiarity that almost hurt.

And Morggán was at her side all evening—he, himself, so different from what she knew of him. Well, no, not different exactly, but more complete perhaps.

More than once, certainly inside her house, he seemed slightly too large for the space around him, a hulking soldier forced temporarily into stillness while his wounds healed. Here, among his men, command settled on him like a second skin. Even when his voice was quiet, other conversations would dip, men turning their heads to listen without seeming to notice they’d done it. The entire gathering seemed to shift its weight around him, a fact she found strangely pleasing.

The evening wore gradually onward until at last the conversations began thinning into smaller, quieter pockets. Alasdair finally seemed to run out of steam. Eòin rose first and stretched broadly before wandering off toward the darker trees. Finlay followed soon after. At length, Tormod pushed heavily to his feet with a muttered complaint about old bones and foolishly long nights.

“That,” he announced gravely, “is enough o’ Alasdair’s voice for one day.”

“Och, but ye’re a lucky bastard, Captain, and ye’ll see me again in the morn,” Alasdair assured him.

“I pray nightly against it,” Tormod grumbled.

Avery smiled again despite herself.

The older man inclined his head briefly toward her before departing toward the deeper shadows of the forest.

A lull fell over those around the fire still, and Avery glanced toward Morggán beside her.

“I should probably get to bed, too,” she said softly.