Page 93 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

It couldn’t be.

I scrambled out of the bed, throwing the heavy duvet over the sheets and backing against the opposite wall. My pulse pounded in my ears as I stared at the bed. It was nothing. Ash must have spit off of the wicks of the candles on the nightstand after I’d fallen asleep. The color was imagined. It had to be.

I didn’t dare double check.

I pulled on a clean shirt and breeches, eager to get going as soon as possible. Retreating to the washroom, I brushed my teeth and splashed my face with water, beads of moisture dribbling down my sleeves. My boots stood like sentries beside the door. The housekeeper had scrubbed out the mud that had clung to the soles after yesterday evening’s training session. I stepped into them before draping my cloak over my arm and heading downstairs.

I cursed as I climbed down the stairs, the muscles of my thighs overworked from so many hours on horseback. And it was only day two of our journey. When I arrived in the dining room, I paused at the sight before me. Katerina and Enhart chatted like old friends, the housekeeper gesturing excitedly to three small sketches that were strewn across the table. Her joy swelled around her, warming my cheeks like rays of sunlight. As I peered closer, I recognized the face of the stable boy alongside two others. They must be her grandchildren.

I studied the pair for a moment. It was oddly sweet.

“Miss Erramun,” said the housekeeper, finally noticing me. “Please, eat.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

I dropped into the chair opposite Enhart, bringing a cup of tea to my lips. I studied him over its rim as the housekeeper swept up the sketches and left with a curtsy.

“So,” I began, “all of a sudden you’re friendly?”

The corners of his lips curled upwards. “I’m very friendly.”

“Not to me,” I replied pointedly. “Don’t you remember the night we met?”

He chuckled. “I’ll never forget it. The Outlander staring blatantly at me from across the room.”

My cheeks warmed as an image of him in his green doublet, surrounded by adoring lords and ladies, flashed behind my eyes. “I wasn’t staring,” I lied.

“That’s not how I remember it. Then again, you were fairly deep in your cups.”

I scoffed. “And you insulted me about five different ways during our first conversation.”

He waved a hand. “Please, I know how much you love to argue.”

I rolled my eyes and bit into a crunchy piece of buttered toast. Katerina bustled in and out, plying us with excessive helpings of bacon and piping hot tea. We ate quickly before setting out, Enhart warning me that the rest of our journey was about to get less than comfortable.

We encountered no one on the road, save for a shepherd with a vague warning about wolves that were bothering his sheep. The skies pelted us with near-constant spring rains, and dampness clung to every fiber of my clothing. The soaked leather of my boots tightened, chafing the skin of my heels.

I hardly noticed.

I was too preoccupied with the image of the scorch marks I had found in my bed this morning. I wanted so badly to believe that I had had nothing to do with them. Surely magic couldn’t leech out of a person while they slept? I pressed the back of my hand to my cheek. My skin was warm, as always, but was it warmer than usual? I wasn’t certain.

I stiffened as Enhart’s eyes flicked toward me. There was determination in his gaze. He never missed a thing, godsdamn him. I focused, tightening my wards so quickly I could practically hear them slamming shut. I didn’t need him poking through my head. Certainly not now.

By the time daylight had surrendered to night, we had arrived at an inn just off the road. It was the only thing around for miles, with white-washed walls and oil lamps flickering behind every window. The flowerbeds were stuffed with puffy pink flowers, their petals peppered with raindrops that glistened in the lamplight. The breeze disturbed the wooden sign hanging above the door, and I peered closer at it. A wyvern had been painted onto its surface, curled around its own tail like a sleeping cat. Enhart pulled Grim to a stop, swinging out of the saddle and beckoning for me to do the same.

I winced as my boots hit the earth. Enhart grabbed my reins, securing the horses to a post beside the door. Leather scraped against my tender heels as I followed him, eager for a hot bath and soft bed. The sweet scent of peonies tickled my nostrils as we stepped through the front door. The inn was clean, if a little musty, the only sound the snoring of a middle-aged man sitting behind the desk. Enhart cleared his throat.

The man snorted, blinking at us through heavy eyelids. He climbed clumsily to his feet, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. “Welcome to the Sleeping Wyvern Inn,” he said in a gravelly tone. “Do you have a reservation with us?”

Enhart nodded. “Under Smith.”

I shot him a wry look. A fake name? Surely he would be recognized. His face had been captured in paintings and history books for the last two centuries. The innkeeper’s brow cocked as he looked us up and down. He pulled a thick ledger from the bowels of the desk, setting it down with a thud. The tip of his nose nearly skimmed the page as he searched for the name.

Loosening my wards, I allowed my thoughts to spill toward Enhart. Smith?

It’s safer to travel incognito, Erramun, he replied.

My brows shot up. The innkeeper sniffed, dragging his finger down the page. I don’t think he believes you, I pointed out.