Chapter 120
Merrick’s POV
The road out of Black Wolf was good for the first two miles and then became a bit bumpy. The horses managed it without complaint. The soldiers rode in their formation behind us, the trader somewhere in the middle of the column with his escort, and Agnes rode beside me and looked at the road ahead with the intensity of someone who had decided the horizon was the only thing worth looking at.
I looked at her sideways.
I did it carefully, with my peripheral vision.
She was difficult to read.
Not impossible. I had encountered difficult before. But Agnes had a quality of surface that was rare - she let you see the anger, the grief, the determination, all of it arranged and presented, and you got the feeling that what was underneath the arrangement was something else entirely, something she had decided nobody was going to reach without earning the right to look.
I stole another glance.
She turned and looked directly at me.
I returned my eyes to the road with unhurried ease.
"You know," she said.
"Mm."
"Instead of drilling holes in the side of my face." A pause. "You could turn back. If you’d rather not be here."
I considered the statement. Then I looked at her with the openness of someone who has nothing to hide.
"What gave you the impression I didn’t want to be here?" I asked.
She returned my look with the flat patience of someone addressing a question they find slightly below their intelligence. "You spent a considerable amount of time this morning arguing against it."
"I was pulling his legs," I said. "Terrell expects too much unquestioning compliance. Someone has to make it entertaining for him." I glanced at her. "Accepting every order without a little pushback isn’t..."
"Don’t," she said.
I stopped.
"Don’t do that," she said. "The charm. The easy explanation that makes everything sound lighter than it is." She looked at the road. "I’m not Angel. I won’t find it endearing. Just... don’t."
I was quiet for a moment.
"Alright," I said.
The road moved under us.
"Did you want me to come?" I asked.
She looked at me.
"Because you seem annoyed that I initially resisted," I said. "Which suggests it mattered to you one way or the other."
Something shifted in her expression.
"I don’t need you," she said. "I could do this without you."
"I know."
"I’m not someone who requires protecting."
"I’ve gathered that."
"So your presence is..."
"Practical," I said. "I have authority in these territories. The trader cooperates because of me. The families we visit will open their doors because of me." I looked at her steadily. "You could do this without me. It would take longer and be harder and some doors would stay closed." A pause. "That’s all."
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she looked at the road.
"Fine," she said.
"Fine," I agreed.
We rode in silence.
The sun was generous for the first few hours and then decided it had made enough effort and began its descent toward the treeline.
I had been watching the light change and thinking about the geography of the next settlement when I noticed Agnes’s posture had shifted slightly - the shoulders coming forward by a fraction, the hands on the reins tighter than they needed to be. The accumulated tension of a day in the saddle with nowhere to put it.
"Trader," I called back.
He appeared forward in the column, escorted by a guard.
"How far until we reach our first destination?" I asked.
"We are close, my lord." He bobbed his head. "There’s an Inn not far ahead. The innkeeper there, she... she was one of the people who purchased. An infant." He looked at me, then away. "We’re close."
I turned, without meaning to, and looked at Agnes.
She had heard.
The shift in her face was the shift of someone who has been holding themselves at a controlled distance from hope - because hope, when it has been disappointed enough times, becomes its own kind of pain, and Agnes had the look of someone who had learned this and was being very careful. But underneath the control...
Hope.
Small and frightened and entirely real, moving through her face like light through water. I looked at the road ahead.
"We’re almost there," I said. To no one in particular. To the air. To whatever was listening.
****
Soon enough, the inn came into view. Warm light in the windows. The smell of wood smoke and something cooking. A stable off to one side where a boy was moving between the horses.
I brought my horse to a stop and dismounted.
Behind me, I heard Agnes dismounting - the small sounds of it, the shift of weight and the creak of leather - and some automatic reflex turned me toward her, some impulse to offer the steadying hand that a person offered when someone had been riding all day and the legs were likely to be wobbly.
I stopped myself.
She said she didn’t need it.
I watched, peripherally, as she came down from the horse. Her legs took her weight, held for a moment - and then a fractional give.
She steadied herself against the horse’s side.
I looked at the inn.
Then turned to the soldiers and told them to make camp outside - tents, rotation, then come in for dinner. They acknowledged this with their voices, then I turned and moved toward the door.
The trader was already at the door.
I gestured for him to lead the way.
The innkeeper was a broad woman with the looks of someone who had been running a public establishment long enough to have lost any capacity for surprise. She came forward when we entered with the practiced welcome of a woman who had assessed the whole situation- soldiers, a lord, a woman, and a small weaselly man.
"An honor," she said, with a bow. "A great honor, my lord. Please, come in, sit..."
"Give us your seats," I said. "The best food you have. Whatever’s hot."
"Of course, of course..."
"I don’t want food."
I turned.