She shrugged. “Then it’s just another night. You know, I survived for a long time without you whispering sweet nothings in my ear.”

“You remember that?”

She said nothing. It was better that he didn’t know how little she remembered of the night before.

“And then what? We’ll meet tomorrow morning?”

“Yes. Just before dawn. Get another early start.”

He seemed to chew on the idea, but then said, “Alright.”

“Good. Have fun drinking and fighting the locals.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Don’t let me stop you from being yourself. You’ll need a proper wench to warm your bed too.”

“I already told you, nothing happened with that—”

“Woman whose name you still don’t know? Got it. See you in the morning.”

“Wait, where are my manners?”

“Every time someone says that I want to punch them in the throat,” Bryony cut in.

“I was going to offer you my blanket. It’s still damp, but if you hang it from a tree branch it should be dry before nightfall.”

“Oh.” The unexpected gesture made her feel a little bad about her previous comments, even if they were true.

“Here, take it. See you in the morning.”

She watched him go, wet blanket dangling from her arm. When he reached the fork, he turned left, not once looking back. After several minutes, she followed, but took the right fork.

Ludo

Leaving her didn’t sit well with him, but he didn’t want to make a point of it lest she grow suspicious of his motives. At least she doesn’t know that I almost left last night, he thought. He raised a finger to graze his lip where she’d elbowed him. It was all healed now, but he could still feel the memory of the way it had throbbed as he held her. Her hair had tickled his cheek, too, but he hadn’t minded it.

You’re a masochist, he thought scornfully. Of course he was. The drinking. The fighting. The womanizing. And now?

Cuddling with his enemy. Even for him, it was an all-time low. He barked out a self-deprecating laugh. “Rutting fool.”

He turned his mind to the present as he entered the odd assortment of mismatched structures that was the village of Slough. Each building was a different color, their roofs topping them at different heights and angles. Unlike Kestrel, with its vibrant, cheerful atmosphere, Slough felt like it was headed the way of the ghost town. The scant few residents that wandered the streets this late in the day were either staggering drunks or scurrying like rats, their eyes darting to and fro suspiciously.

The first tavern in the row was called The Drunken Barrel. Well, ‘tavern’ was probably the wrong word, as the establishment included a well-advertised partnership with the brothel situated upstairs named Narcissi’s Secret, a name that was bordering on sacrilege. As he considered the joint, the doors were flung open, and a red-faced man came tumbling out. He landed in the road, cursing. “And don’t come back!” a voice hollered from inside before slamming the door.