Cornelius stood before her, peering over a massive pile of clothes in his arms, topped by two pairs of shoes. “The fire demon brought these by. Some for you, and some for Oswald. I’ve got to get into town, but can you wake your friend? Tell him dinner starts soon. He won’t want to miss the food.”
Oswald couldn’t stand the sight of her. Waking him was the last thing she wanted to do, but she didn’t want to act like a baby in front of a werewolf. Especially a werewolf who’d probably lost both his sons to sea demons.
“No problem,” she said, taking the pile from Cornelius.
“Venison stew tonight,” he said as he stepped from the room, closing the door behind him.
Celia plopped the clothes on her narrow bed. After pulling off her old gown, she washed herself with a bowl of cold water and soap. At some point, she’d have to fill up the copper tub in the bathroom to wash her hair. And she really needed to figure out how they warmed the water, because this icy bath made her shiver.
These she-wolves are really into maxi dresses, she thought, slipping into a red one. The room lacked a mirror, but she already knew that crimson would bring out the blue in her eyes.
She slipped into the shoes—soft canvas flats—and stomped on the floor. Maybe that would rouse Oswald, so she wouldn’t have to wake him directly. The windows and the old floorboards rattled with every step. She paused, listening to the wall for any sign of movement in Oswald’s room. Nothing.
She crossed to the bed. Folding his clothes, she belted out a pop song at the top of her lungs. That should wake him. When she had a tidy stack of shirts and pants, she dropped his new pair of shoes on top. She heard no movement coming from next door.
Pulling open the door, she steeled herself for his angry gaze. She crossed the hall, clutching his things, and knocked on his door. Nothing.
She knocked harder, nearly dropping the shoes. “Oswald!”
Still no response. Gods, the guy would sleep through a marching-band invasion.
She kicked the door open into a dimly lit room. On a narrow bed, Oswald slept with both arms splayed over his head. His chest rose and fell slowly.
Dropping his clothes on a bureau, Celia crossed to the bed. “Oswald?” He still wore his blood-soaked robe. He really didn’t care if another man’s lifeblood decorated his white silk as he dreamt.
She cleared her throat. “Oswald.”
His cheek twitched.
She reached out, tentatively touching his shoulders. “Os—”
Before she could get out the rest, his eyes snapped open with a look of terror, his hands flying to grip hers.
“Ow!” She jerked her hands out of his grasp, rubbing her wrists. So maybe his dreams aren’t so pleasant. Probably dreamt of Asmodeus, the maniac who’d tortured him.
He rose on his elbows, gasping for breath. As he stared at her, his face seemed to relax. After a few moments, he arched an eyebrow. “If you wanted to get in my bed, you only had to ask.”
Celia crossed her arms. Was he seriously flirting with her? “I thought you didn’t even like me.”
“Noways lusting needs liking.”
“What?” She wasn’t sure what that meant, only that it was disgusting. He obviously spoke in his stupid Tatter dialect just to annoy her. Tobias never indulged in it. “Can you talk normally? I know you’re capable.”
He threw off his blankets, jumping out of bed. “I’m starving.”
She shifted her eyes from the scars on his chest. “Get dressed. We’re getting dinner on the common. I’ll wait in the hall.” She dropped the clothes on his bed and stepped out the bedroom door, closing it behind her.
In the narrow hall, she eyed the uneven floor and the cramped stairwell that led downstairs. The house smelled earthy, like peat moss and sage. Not the sort of place she’d ever imagined herself, but cozy.
The bedroom door creaked open, and Oswald stepped out, wearing a black shirt, loose gray trousers, and a knitted gray hat over his curls.
Her eyes widened, taking him in. Before she’d met Tobias, she’d always believed the Tatters were malformed, with crooked teeth and boils. Like trolls. When she’d first met Oswald, she could tell he was handsome, but he’d still had a nightmarish appearance. He’d shown up on her doorstep, bleeding and battered like some kind of savage unearthed from the darkest corners of the dungeon.
But now, with his golden skin and gray eyes, he could almost be mistaken for a prince.
He frowned at her. “What?”
“Nothing.” She needed to remember that he might look like a prince, but he still acted like a Tatter.
He brushed past her, thundering down the stairs. She followed, tidying her hair into a twist over her shoulder.
Oswald yanked open the front door, and fresh marine air greeted them. It was a cloudless night, and a dome of stars arched above Dogtown’s steep-peaked houses.
Beside her, he trod the twisting dirt road in silence. Given the choice, he’d probably never speak a word to her. One night, he would simply slit her throat in her sleep before falling into a restful slumber, his pajamas soaked in her blood.