“Marion,” he said again—the word laced with a growl.

Her mother’s name. Her mother—and her father. The last people who had looked at her with true affection. Even Finnula, all those years locked in that tower, had always watched her with some mixture of pity and fear.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been held. Or comforted. Or smiled at with any genuine love for who she was.

Words were suddenly hard, the energy to dredge up a lie or retort too much to bother with. So Elide ignored Lorcan’s command and headed back toward the cluster of painted wagons.

Manon had come for her, she reminded herself with each step. Manon, and Asterin, and Sorrel. But even they had left her alone in the woods.

Pity, she reminded herself—self-pity would do her no good. Not with so many miles between her and whatever shred of a future she stood a chance of finding. But even when she arrived, handed over her burden, and found Aelin … what could she offer? She couldn’t even read, gods above. The mere thought of explaining that to Aelin, to anyone—

She’d think on it later. She’d wash the queen’s clothes if she had to. At least she didn’t need to be literate for that.

Elide didn’t hear Lorcan this time as he approached, arms laden with massive logs.

“You will tell me what you know,” he said through his teeth. She almost sighed, but he added, “Once you are … better.”

She supposed that, to him, sorrow and despair would be some sort of sickness.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” he said right back.

Their companions were smiling when she and Lorcan returned. They had found dry ground on the other side of the wagons—solid enough for tents.

Elide spied the one that had been raised for her and Lorcan and wished it would rain.

Lorcan had trained enough warriors to know when not to push. He’d tortured enough enemies to know when they were one slice or snap away from breaking in ways that would make them useless.

So Marion, when her scent had changed, when he’d felt even the strange, otherworldly power hidden in her blood shift to sorrow … worse, to hopelessness…

He’d wanted to tell her not to bother with hope anyway.

But she was barely into womanhood. Perhaps hope, foolish as it was, had gotten her out of Morath. At least her cleverness had, lies and all.

He’d dealt with enough people, killed and bedded and fought alongside enough people, to know Marion wasn’t wicked, or conniving, or wholly selfish. He wished she was, because it’d make it easier—make his task so much easier.

But if she didn’t tell him about Morath, if he broke her from pushing too much … He needed every advantage when he slipped into that Keep. And when he slipped out again.

She’d done it once. Perhaps Marion was the only person alive who had managed to escape.

He was about to explain that to her when he saw what she was staring at—the tent.

Their tent.

Ombriel came forward, throwing her usual wary glance his way, and slyly informed Elide they’d finally have a night alone together.

Arms full of logs, Lorcan could only watch as that pale face of sorrow and despair transformed into youth and mischief, into blushing anticipation, as easily as if Marion had held up a mask. She even gave him a flirting glance before beaming at Ombriel and rushing to dump her armful of sticks and twigs into the pit they’d cleared for the nightly fire.

He possessed the good sense to at least smile at the woman who was supposed to be his wife, but by the time he’d followed to drop his own burden into the fire pit, she’d stalked off for the tent set a good distance away from the others.

It was small, he realized with no tiny amount of horror. Probably meant for the sword-thrower who’d last used it. Marion’s slim figure slipped through the white canvas flaps with hardly a ripple. Lorcan just frowned a bit before ducking inside.

And remained ducking slightly. His head would go straight through the canvas if he stood to his full height. Woven mats atop gathered rushes covered the stuffy interior, and Marion stood on the other side of the tent, cringing at the sleeping roll on the makeshift floor.

The tent probably had enough room for a proper bed and table, if need be, but unless they were camping longer than a night, he doubted they’d get any of those things.

“I’ll sleep on the ground,” he offered blandly. “You take the roll.”

“What if someone comes in?”

“Then you’ll say we got into a fight.”

“Every night?” Marion pivoted, her rich eyes meeting his. The cold, weary face was back.

Lorcan considered her words. “If someone walks into our tent without permission tonight, no one here will make the same mistake again.”

He’d punished men in his war camps for less.

But her eyes remained weary—wholly unimpressed and unmoved. “Fine,” she said again.

Too close—far too close to the edge of snapping entirely. “I could find some buckets, heat water, and you could bathe in here, if you want. I’ll stand watch outside.”

Creature comforts—to get her to trust him, be grateful to him, to want to help him. To ease that dangerous brittleness.

Indeed, Marion peered down at herself. The white shirt that was now dirt-flecked, the brown leather pants that were filthy, the boots…

“I’ll offer Ombriel a coin to wash it all for you tonight.”

“I have no other clothes to wear.”

“You can sleep without them.”

Wariness faded in a flash of dismay. “With you in here?”

He avoided the urge to roll his eyes.

She blurted, “What about your own clothes?”

“What of them?”

“You … they’re filthy, too.”

“I can wait another night.” She’d likely beg to sleep in the wagon if he was naked in here—

“Why should I be the only one naked? Wouldn’t the ruse work better if you and I both took the opportunity at once?”

“You are very young,” he said carefully. “And I am very old.”

“How old?”

She’d never asked.

“Old.”

She shrugged. “A body is a body. You reek as badly as I do. Go sleep outside if you won’t wash.”

A test—not driven by any desire or logic, but … to see if he’d listen to her. Who was in control. Get her a bath, do as she asked … Let her get a sense of control over the situation. He gave her a thin smile. “Fine,” he echoed.

When Lorcan pushed through the tent again, laden with water, he discovered Marion seated on the bedroll, boots off, that ruined ankle and foot stretched out before her. Her small hands were braced on the mangled, discolored flesh, as if she’d been rubbing the ache from it.

“How badly does it hurt every day?” He sometimes used his magic to brace the ankle. When he remembered. Which wasn’t often.

Marion’s focus, however, went right to the steaming cauldron he’d set on the floor, then the bucket he’d hauled over a shoulder for her to use as well.

“I’ve had it since I was a child,” she said distantly, as if hypnotized by the clean water. She rose on uneven feet, wincing at her wrecked leg. “I learned to live with it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Why do you even care?” The words were barely more than a breath as she unbraided her long, thick hair, still fixated on the bath.

He was curious; he wanted to know how and when and why. Marion was beautiful—surely marring her like that had been done with some ill intent. Or to prevent something worse.

She at last cut him a glance. “You said you’d stand watch. I thought you meant outside.”

He snorted. Indeed he did. “Enjoy yourself,” he said, pushing out of the tent once more.

Lorcan stood in the grasses, monitoring the busy camp, the wide bowl of the darkening sky. He hated the plains. Too much open space; too much visibility.

Behind him, his ears picked up the sigh and hiss of leather sliding down skin, the rustle of rough-woven cloth being peeled off. Then fainter, softer sounds of more delicate fabric sliding away. Then silence—followed by a very, very quiet rustling. Like she didn’t want even the gods hearing what she was doing. Hay crunched. Then a thud of the mattress roll lifting and falling—