“By Mar, Royce.” Hadrian shook his head, amazed. “They saved our lives. You can trust them.”
By the time Gwen had Royce back in bed, he was bleeding again, and she had to redress the wound in his side. Before they arrived, someone had done such a terrible job of stitching him that the doctor was forced to fix it. When she was done, he caught her hand.
“If you … if you’re up to something … if you’re trying to…” Royce hesitated, holding her, his arms weak and shaking. She could see him struggling. “Why did you really do it? Why’d you help us?”
“I told you.”
His expression didn’t change. He didn’t believe her.
Gwen smiled.
Royce smirked. “I don’t get it. Something’s not right, and trust me, I’m not the kind you want to cross. Understand?”
She nodded, still smiling.
“Well … good.” He let go of her. “And you should probably be careful, because just about the entire world is looking for us.”
Royce had never provided details, but Gwen understood the two were wanted and on the run. She was housing criminals, a hanging offense if she was caught.
Looking back on those months, Gwen saw them as the most intensely lived of her life. She was never more frightened and never so euphoric. She spent her days tracking gossip and trying to squelch any rumors about a man who had cried for help on Wayward Street the week of the big storm. Her nights had been spent feeding, cleaning, and dressing Royce, during which they held short—often cryptic—conversations she never fully understood. Weak as a kitten, he needed her for everything, and she could see it pained him more than his wounds.
At first he was quiet, but as the days passed they began to discuss such serious things as cooking, sewing, the snow that soon fell, and Wintertide.
“You probably celebrate the holiday with a feast and decorations,” Royce said. By then he was able to sit up and the two spoke in the light of the single candle. “Lots of family and friends, dancing and songs.”
Gwen noticed a twinge of sadness, even spite in his voice. She shook her head. “I’ve never celebrated Wintertide. My mother and I were always traveling, usually alone, and we never had money for any feasts. Since she died”—Gwen shrugged—“I’ve been struggling just to survive. It’s hard to celebrate when your choices are starving or being a slave.”
She remembered he appeared surprised, even suspicious. “You don’t look like you’re hurting for food.”
“No, not now. I finally decided I didn’t want to be a victim anymore. I got to the point where I was just tired of being afraid.”
He reached out then and for the first time touched her for no reason. He placed his hand on hers and gave a soft squeeze. The hint of malice she’d seen in his face had been replaced by sympathy—not pity, but understanding, a shared appreciation that nearly made her cry.
Until then she had always been the loyal daughter, the detested Calian immigrant, the whore. Even the girls, who knew most of her story, viewed her as either some sort of hero or opportunist, depending on their mood. In Royce’s eyes she could see the pain of struggling to survive reflected back. They were the same, two pieces of wood from different worlds but whose grain lined up, and it was then she knew she was falling in love.
That was the closest either had come to discussing themselves. Gwen had hoped he would volunteer more about himself, but he never did. From his and Hadrian’s comments she guessed the two were bandits, highwaymen perhaps—but who was she to judge after so many had judged her.
She never did tell him about her gift to tell the future by reading palms or how her saving Royce had been foretold years before. With the touch of his hand and that gentle squeeze, such things became trivial—part of a past that she preferred to let go. She had him finally, and it didn’t matter who he was or what he had done.
Snow fell outside while inside Royce and Hadrian convalesced. As they grew stronger, they came downstairs to sit with the rest around the fire. They had sung songs and told stories—at least Hadrian had. Royce made a habit of sitting quietly beside her—always beside her. And she couldn’t help noticing the glares he had given Dixon.
Dixon was quite literally the man of the House, a local carter with a strong back and a soft spot for Gwen. She had employed him to do the heavy lifting in the days when they built Medford House. Since then, Dixon remained as the unofficial guardian of the girls.
“Listen,” Royce told her, and then hesitated. He did that a lot, as if every sentence suffered a debate in his head. It had been two months after they had arrived and Royce and Gwen were in the bedroom. Outside, snow was falling again as Wintertide neared. “I … ah…” He faltered once more. “You didn’t have to help us. Shouldn’t have, really. Makes no sense. Dangerous and nothing in it for you. You spent money paying that doctor and more feeding us, not to mention all the time you … you … well, you know what you did. So anyway…” He sighed and shook his head. “This doesn’t come easy to me, but … I want to thank you, okay?”
She waited. Gwen thought he might kiss her then. She hoped he would—hoped he’d throw his arms around her, say he was in love and that he’d stay with her always, but he didn’t. Instead he announced he and Hadrian would be leaving at dawn.
It felt as if he were taking her heart with him that chilly morning when he and Hadrian had set out. She had kept her teeth tight together for fear she would say more than she should, or worse, start to cry. The prophecy had never promised anything for her. The fantasy of him being her destiny, of them living happily ever after was all Gwen’s doing, but still she had hoped, and she continued to hope as she watched them ride away, leaving two lines of tracks in the newly fallen snow.
She prayed he would be back.
But why now? Why now, when I can’t even see him?
She refused to let Royce see her battered. Maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe he didn’t really care, but if he did, then he would want to know who did it and like a fool he would want revenge. Men always wanted revenge. Royce would get himself killed trying to protect her, and she wouldn’t let that happen. Better that he thought she didn’t care about him. Better that he never found out the truth. Better that she kept him out of it or he would end up like Dixon—or worse.
Why now? And where is Rose?
Gwen heard the front door bang open and her heart fluttered. Loud voices came up though the floorboards but were too muffled to understand. She pushed to her feet. She was unsteady and groped for the bedpost and then the wall as she shuffled toward the door. Keeping herself upright with only one arm was a challenge; seeing clearly was another. Both eyes were swollen, her right entirely closed, and the crying hadn’t helped.
Reaching the hallway, she could hear better.
“…we don’t know. That’s all he said.” William the Carpenter’s voice.
“What about Rose?” Mae asked.
“Thought she might have returned.” A pause, then William continued. “The high constable has all his sheriffs out looking for her. Even hired on a whole bunch of new deputies.”
Jollin came up the steps, shocked to see Gwen in the hallway. “It’s okay—just Will.”
Gwen nodded and Jollin took her arm. Together they shuffled back to the bedroom.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.” Jollin pretended to be cross. “Doctor’s orders. Remember?”
“I should have never let her go,” Gwen said as Jollin laid her back on the mattress.