Braizen throws his head back and roars. I love the sound of his laugh. It’s rich, like an aged liquor. I could drink it all day if given a chance. I inspect his profile as he drinks, fully observing what his loose hair usually hides. Sharp, angular features that match his sharp, angular personality. How dreadfully annoying for someone to possess both.

I wave again and exhale loudly. There are far too many people crowded in here for me to grab the barkeep’s attention.

“We should just find the cellar and borrow a few bottles of whatever we want,” I suggest.

“You mean steal whatever we want?” Braizen shrugs. “I’m a bandit, Sparrow.”

A bandit indeed. I toss one last futile glance down the bar and then meet Braizen’s stare.

“Okay, thief. You win this round.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Two

Idalia

Thievery proves to be more exciting in theory than it is in reality. We easily snake our way through the drunks and bar wenches and, even more disappointing, past the tavern’s security, a lone balding man slumped over in his chair, dead asleep. Braizen descends the spiral staircase leading to the cellar.

I leave three steps between us and take careful note of the loose curls that revolt against the leather tie that dares try to hold them back.

He claps his hands in celebration as we enter a damp storage. The room is lit by two sconces that send dim light across the mossy stone walls. We waste no time.

Braizen starts on a wall of shelves, and I take the one opposite of it. I drum my fingers against the bottles, squinting to read the labels.

“Did a child write these? I can barely read what they say!”

“Who cares what they say? Any one of these will eventually get you to the same destination.”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me.

“Is it truly so wrong to want to enjoy the ride to that destination?” I slide my fingers across the bottles as I make my way down the aisle. “Besides, I shouldn’t have to remind you how quickly ale affects me. I much prefer wine. More drink, less puke.”

“Fair point.”

After another minute or so of searching, I throw up my arms. There’s no wine that I can see. I don’t know why I’m surprised; it’s a tavern for brutes, not princesses.

Braizen responds to my relentless sighing. “For the love of the Guard, Sparrow. Just pick one.”

I turn to see him pull a cork from a bottle with his teeth.

“I don’t know which one!” I return to my perusal and tap my chin, “Which one do you think Torrent would like best? I could tell he had the best taste for these things.”

I realize what I said and quickly swivel.

Braizen’s face is ghostly white; the bottle hangs limply at his side.