Page 42 of For the Love of the Quest

Once the spiders were finally behind them, Edith couldn’t help checking her satchel over and over again to make sure none of the creatures had tagged along for the ride. It was the pitch-dark of night just before dawn by the time they made it back out through the replica Round Table. As they snuck through the town of Winchester, Edith regaled Jay with the tale of their adventure. Out in the open air, with a new destination on the horizon, the spider encounter seemed much more like a daring, lighthearted act of bravery than the horrifying disaster it had felt like while they were in it. It was no longer the kind of scare that made you want to cry, but instead the kind that made you laugh.

Despite Edith’s gift for dynamic storytelling, Worthing still slunk behind the group with a practically visible rain cloud above his head. When they had told him that there was no treasure yet, all he had said was “I’m shocked” in a tone that conveyed he was anything but.

“Just a few more clues,” Thomasin had said, clapping him on the back.

“Just a few more chances for the police to pin us down,” he shot back. Thomasin said nothing, barely even sparing him a glance.

Every time Edith looked at Thomasin, her lips tingled and butterflies erupted in her stomach. She wasn’t sure how she was goingto behave normally in front of Thomasin anymore. The mere thought of their kiss had her legs turning to jelly.

They were almost to the outskirts of town when Edith stopped and said, “Why don’t we just rent a room at the inn for the day? I mean, I think we all deserve a little luxury. And a bath.” It was almost dawn, and they could all use a good nap before setting off again. Sure, it was a risk, but Edith felt invincible, and they could just stay in the safety of their rooms during the day and leave once it got dark again.

Thomasin looked as if the idea had never once occurred to her, but then shrugged and said, “Why not.”

Jay clapped his hands in delight, and they doubled back into the main street of Winchester. The inn was a modest brick building at the far end of the town square. Unsurprisingly, the dining room was empty, save for a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a stained white apron who was sweeping underneath one of the tables. He looked up at the rickety sound of the door swinging open, naturally suspicious of a group of strangers arriving so late, or early, depending on who you asked, but when Edith took out her heavy bag of gold, his suspicion quickly faded into hospitality.

With only a handful of coins, they got a room, a hot meal, and a bucket of hot water for each of them. After scrubbing herself clean of spiders, dirt, and sweat, Edith flopped onto the bed, which had an objectively thin mattress, but felt like a cloud after all the nights sleeping on the ground, and dug into the potato stew that she’d brought up from the dining room.

It was bland, near tasteless, but it was still warm, and Edith was happy just to have something to eat. She wasn’t used to the rationed travel meals she’d had to endure these last weeks, her store of toast and jam long since run out.

Her dinner was just about finished when there was a firm knock on her door. She dropped her spoon, and it fell with a dullclatter into the bowl. Her heart sped up with every step toward the door, and when she turned the knob, she thought it might beat straight out of her chest.

Thomasin stood on the other side, her dark, wet hair loose around her shoulders. Her face had been scrubbed clean as well, cheeks still reddened. She gave Edith a very un-Thomasin-like smile. It was hesitant, almost bashful.

“Can I come in?” Her voice was rougher than usual.

“Of course,” Edith said but forgot to move aside to actually let her in. Only when Thomasin laughed and gestured at the gap between the door and the wall that Edith was currently blocking did she have the wherewithal to step backward and open the door for her.

As Thomasin entered her room, Edith sent a prayer to King Arthur himself to please just let herself behave normally. Edith wanted to be cool and relaxed, not uppity and overwhelmed.

Instead, she blurted, “Good stew.”

Thomasin gave her a peculiar look over her shoulder, then sat down on the bed. She made herself comfortable, as she always did, leaning back against the headboard and stretching her legs out in front of her. It was a trait that Edith envied. She never felt comfortable anywhere, let alone in someone else’s space. No matter how welcoming that someone might be, she always felt like an imposition, and would shrink herself down to take up as little space as possible. Thomasin did the opposite, and maybe it should’ve felt rude, but really it just seemed like Thomasin knew she had the right to exist as she was.

It occurred to Edith then that Thomasin had never once asked her to be smaller, or less. In fact, she had only ever seemed delighted by the moments when Edith had been most herself. So trusting that, she summoned her courage and sat down on the bed next to Thomasin.

At once, Thomasin took Edith’s hand and interlaced their fingers together. “Is this okay?” she asked.

Edith nodded and flipped their hands so that Thomasin’s faced downward and Edith’s rested on the bed. She studied Thomasin’s tattoos. On the back of her hand was a burst of flowers. Small, delicate petals woven into a maze of thorny stems. Blood did drip from the flowers, which made the flowery display seem much more suited to Thomasin’s tastes.

“Oleander,” Thomasin said, noting Edith’s attention.

“The Oleander Inn,” Edith realized aloud.

Thomasin’s lips tipped upward, but there was something sad in her smile. “The only home I’ve ever known. Seemed fitting.”

“Were you born into the syndicate?” Edith asked, taking care to measure her tone so that she didn’t seem too eager. She wanted to dive into Thomasin’s past. It was a deep, dark ocean, and Edith wanted to explore every single inch of it. She wanted to hear about all her adventures, all her trials and failures. She wanted to know why Thomasin was who she was.

“No,” Thomasin said, eyes drifting away from Edith and down to the bed. “My parents died when I was young, and I ended up on the street. The leader of the syndicate at the time, Marshall, raised me up, trained me.”

“Did he love you?”

Thomasin seemed taken aback by the question, like she had never once considered it. “I think he loved me the way someone loves their favorite dagger.”

It was said matter-of-factly, coldly, like it wasn’t one of the saddest things Edith had ever heard. “You deserved more than that,” she told Thomasin, who smiled ruefully and batted away the comment with a casual swipe of her hand. “What about your parents? Do you remember them?”

Thomasin sighed and settled deeper into the mattress. “My father, no. But I have flashes of my mother. I might have just imagined them, though,” she added with an embarrassed little laugh.

“What do you remember about her?” Edith asked seriously, ignoring Thomasin’s attempt to minimize the love she clearly had for her mother.