“No. No, I don’t think so.” Esme thought back to their flight. Between the smoky ballroom and the molten stone Bryne had conjured in the street, the stables had caught fire. There had been a great outflowing crush of people losing their minds, likely hurting each other in their progress. But she had not seen the prince among them – or a strong enough guard presence to suggest he’d been in attendance to begin with.
“I don’t know.” Time had gone a little funny. She and Byrne and Alred and the artist all crowded in this room, the latter quietly panicking by the window. At some point, she’d made them leave. Esme remembered the innkeeper’s pinch-faced wife hauling away their bloody clothes by the armful to burn, with a good deal of Ruth’theran’s coin tucked into her sleeve. Sometime after her first sleep, she had heard the city guard conducting their search. They hadn’t come upstairs, but if they came again ...
Well. She’d burn that bridge when she got to it.
“Hey. Don’t mess with your stitches.” She sat the cup of blood lotus tea aside. He hadn’t taken much of it, but with nothing but water in his stomach it wouldn’t be long until he felt it. Next time he woke, she’d find something for him to eat.
Sorry? For getting shot? His hand closed atop hers, a little cold and weak as a kitten, dark crescent moons of old blood deep under his short nails. Esme exhaled slowly and took it for permission to touch him back, turning his hand to rest between both of hers.
“Why, Byrne? You did the same thing you always do. Ran in, caused a giant mess.” Bound to get hurt eventually, behaving like that. Her loose fingertips tightened around his wrist, willing him a portion of her warmth and strength. It didn’t work like that, of course.
“It’s just bad luck.” And – importantly – people shooting at the crazy fire mage were people that weren’t shooting at her. Or their driver. Or the client. “But if you feel badly about it, I promise to throw things at you when you’re better.
“Someday you’ll manage a decent barrier. I have faith.”
“I don’t know.” Time had gone a little funny. She and Byrne and Alred and the artist all crowded in this room, the latter quietly panicking by the window. At some point, she’d made them leave. Esme remembered the innkeeper’s pinch-faced wife hauling away their bloody clothes by the armful to burn, with a good deal of Ruth’theran’s coin tucked into her sleeve. Sometime after her first sleep, she had heard the city guard conducting their search. They hadn’t come upstairs, but if they came again ...
Well. She’d burn that bridge when she got to it.
“Hey. Don’t mess with your stitches.” She sat the cup of blood lotus tea aside. He hadn’t taken much of it, but with nothing but water in his stomach it wouldn’t be long until he felt it. Next time he woke, she’d find something for him to eat.
Sorry? For getting shot? His hand closed atop hers, a little cold and weak as a kitten, dark crescent moons of old blood deep under his short nails. Esme exhaled slowly and took it for permission to touch him back, turning his hand to rest between both of hers.
“Why, Byrne? You did the same thing you always do. Ran in, caused a giant mess.” Bound to get hurt eventually, behaving like that. Her loose fingertips tightened around his wrist, willing him a portion of her warmth and strength. It didn’t work like that, of course.
“It’s just bad luck.” And – importantly – people shooting at the crazy fire mage were people that weren’t shooting at her. Or their driver. Or the client. “But if you feel badly about it, I promise to throw things at you when you’re better.
“Someday you’ll manage a decent barrier. I have faith.”
10-20-2024, 11:32 AM
