Page 34 of Spar of Hearts

She finally reached the door and swung it open, far too out of breath for someone who was ready and waiting.

“Have you seen Roderick?” Sir Oshfeldt asked, his eyes flitting into the room.

She scowled. What a stupid question. “Of course not. Why on earth would he be in here? Did he not share a room with you?”

Sir Oshfeldt pinned his ears back, shook his head, then sighed. “He came up to the room with me, then left to smoke some peppermint. His things are still in there too.”

“Perhaps he and Yomira went to practice for the next time they try to give me a fright—which would be about as wise as a mouse in a milk dish. Your liege forgets whom he prods.”

How he’d been able to be so cruel so quickly after seeing the sick children was beyond her. He’d been so gentle and sweet to Mabel, from the way he danced her doll to make her laugh and the animated motions he made as he told her the story of the knight and the Princess.

Just another mask, she supposed.

“I will speak with him about that, Your Highness.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then muttered, “Once I find where that bastard wandered off to.”

“No! No! Do not do that. I am ordering you not to do that.” The last thing she needed was to seem like a child tattling to their teacher.

“As you wish, Your Highness. If you are ready, we can look for him together while we purchase supplies.”

“All right.” They donned their packs and followed Sir Oshfeldt out into the streets of Little Wing.

Having arrived the night prior at near midnight, the town had been nearly dead. Now, the populous was resurrected in the sunlight, with nearly as many gryphons as there were people milling about.

She considered herself up-to-date on every region in the Valerian mainland. She’d pored over every report, map, and financial ledger she could get her hands on. From a trade standpoint, gryphons were not goods. They were far testier than even the wildest of stallions if they didn’t want to be ridden. But all the books in the world couldn’t have prepared her for the culture shock of walking among the thick—or feathers—of it.

Gryphons of every size and color sunned themselves on balconies, perched on rooftops, and slept outside shops and houses. The citizens seemed to hardly notice them. Being springtime, fluffy down feathers littered the edges of the street. A grumpy owl-headed gryphon swiveled its head in an unnervingly smooth motion, watching them pass by the blacksmith shop it seemed to call home.

“Sweet Spirits! You are beautiful!” Blackbird practically skipped over to the grouchy gryphon.

“You shouldn’t—” Anya warned, then halted her words. The intimidating creature was happily accepting beak scratches from Blackbird, giving a deep, rolling hoot. The ritual continued with gryphon after gryphon as they slowly worked through their supply list. Sir Oshfeldt followed Blackbird over to a fluffy chick perched atop a barrel. Anya took the opportunity to review the list, drawing a claw down the parchment.

Salt pork and cod, oats, apples, barley, cheese, biscuits, peas, lentils, jarred fruits, fresh water, firewood, soap—

A voice suddenly came over her shoulder. “You’re missing ale.”

“AH!” She startled and jabbed her elbow back. She was just about to go for second blow but stopped at the sight of Roderick doubled over at the waist.

“Hoo…Divine Almighty…” His chest heaved as he slowly straightened. “What…the hell, Anya?” He kept a hand on his gut.

Her heart raced as she dropped her arm, forcing on a cool facade. “Oh, Roderick. There you are. Nice of you to join us.”

“The feeling…haa…isn’t mutual…”

“Where were you?” she asked, hands on her hips. “I’ve been awake for hours.”

She hadn’t. But he didn’t need to know that.

“Octavio snores,” he said simply.

“All right…But where. Were. You? Where did you sleep?”

Roderick rolled up his shirt sleeves. “Out in the field by Yomira. She was lonely.”

That was, without a doubt, a lie. But she couldn’t exactly ask the wyvern to confirm. He probably went out for a cigar and went home with a lovely lady. Or a man. Regardless, it was better for him to get it out of his system before who knows how long at sea. She wouldn’t stand for him bedding any of the crew. Not that she cared, personally—although the heat spreading from her neck to her ears begged to differ.

“Whatever you say.” Anya sized him up, head to toe. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair clearly finger-brushed. “Do you plan to inspire confidence in our crew looking like that?”

“Looks are only part of what gives one a commanding air.” He ran a hand through his fiery hair. “Not all of us are as vain as you, Princess.”