‘That will be excellent. Enough for two, plenty of your creamed potatoes, hot vegetables, that sort of thing. We’ve had a tiring journey.’
Divested of her bags and trunks, Vintage was now making her way up the back stairs as the staff whisked her belongings to an interior lift operated by a pulley system. Noon had moved back to stand against the wall, her eyes trying to take everything in at once. Tor felt a brief stab of irritation at them both: at the girl for being so lost, and at Vintage for picking up a stray and then promptly forgetting about her. He went over to the girl.
‘Come on, you’ll get used to the chaos eventually, I promise. If we just go up after her—’
He touched her elbow lightly to turn her towards the stairs, and she jumped as though he had bitten her. She looked up at him, the expression in her dark eyes unreadable. Tor frowned.
‘I’m not used to being touched,’ she said. He watched her shoulders rise and fall as she took a breath, and when she spoke again her voice was softer. ‘I’m not used to other people being . . . so close.’
He remembered the cool touch of her hand on his neck, and then the alarming dimming of his own strength as it was drained out of him. He was still feeling the effects of that, days later, and when he thought of it, it was the touch of her hand he remembered most clearly. Carefully, he put his hands behind his back and nodded brusquely to her.
‘I expect Vintage intends for you to have the southerly bedroom. Follow me.’
He led her up the winding wooden stairs. The sounds of a busy inn echoed around them, and as they passed the first-floor corridor, he glimpsed a young couple dallying by a door, stealing a last kiss. On the second floor, a waft of strong liquor was followed by a barrage of cheers – someone was having a celebration – and then they reached the third floor, which belonged solely to Vintage. Tor did not know how much it cost to rent out the entire floor of the Sea-Heart Inn for a week, let alone for several years, but Vintage had never seemed to think it a ridiculous expense. Whoever sent her money did it regularly enough, and with no complaints. The thought of it stung a little, even now; as one of the last families of Ebora he was spectacularly wealthy, but claiming that wealth would mean opening communications with his sister. If she was even still alive. He shook his head briefly – dwelling on it didn’t help.
‘Down the end of the corridor Vintage has her bedroom, her study and a separate bathing room. My own bedchamber is here, alongside the shared dining room,’ he nodded to an ornate door opposite, ‘and your room will be this one, just across the way. We’ll be sharing the same bathing chamber, I’m afraid.’
‘And I will sleep here.’ It was almost a question. The fell-witch was staring up the corridor, where a stream of staff were depositing bags under the shouted supervision of Vintage. ‘In this place – is it safe?’
‘Safe?’ Tor watched her face carefully. ‘What do you have to fear? You are an agent of the Winnowry, on Winnowry business. Who would dare to challenge you?’
Her eyes snapped back to him, shining with sudden anger. She pursed her lips as though holding back some further comment, and then, without another word, opened the door to her room and slammed it behind her.
‘And a goodnight to you too!’
Smiling to himself, Tor stepped into his own spacious room, finding it much tidier than he remembered. Lucian had had the place aired, so that it smelled of clean, sea air, and the empty wine bottles and dirty plates had been cleared away. He had just dropped his own bags and removed his sword belt when a soft knock at the door announced the repast he’d ordered. Nodding to the serving man, he took the plates to the table and sat, breaking the sugary crust on the pudding with his spoon, savouring the delicious smell of apples and spices.
And then he sat and looked at it.
When the witch had touched him, he’d never felt anything like it. To have so much of your strength snatched away in an instant, to be suddenly helpless. All at once he had felt the chill evening air against his skin, and every year of his long life had seemed to lie heavy on his bones. He wondered if that was what it felt like, when the crimson flux came. A sudden hollowing, an abrupt aging.
Tor stood up and crossed the room, where he pulled the bell to fetch hot water. He would wash the dust and grime from his skin, and then he would go out for the night. He was ravenous, but not for food.
The bed was enormous. Noon stared at it, not quite able to take it in. There were no less than three thick downy blankets thrown across it, and an odd collection of pillows that did not match. She thought of the narrow bunk in her cell at the Winnowry, with its thin mattress of dried straw. Around the bed were piles of boxes, and more books than she had ever seen, randomly stacked as though they’d been put down for a moment and then forgotten. She suspected that Vintage had been using this as an extra storage room; there were dusty maps pinned to the walls, too, and papers strewn across a long table. Soft lamps had been lit in the corners, and there was a faint scent of angelwort in the room – her mother had used dried angelwort in small cloth bags to keep the tent smelling fresh.
The room began to spin. She sat heavily on the bed, placing her hands on either side of her head.
‘They’ll come for me,’ she whispered to the room. From the street outside she could hear voices raised in cheery, everyday conversation. ‘No one escapes the Winnowry and lives. I pretty much told them to go fuck themselves.’
It was the worst thing she could have done. By escaping, she had spat in the face of their precious Tomas, and in return she wouldn’t just be killed. They would make her suffer.
Her hands turned into fists, pressing against the silky blankets.
‘Let them fucking try.’
There was a clatter in the corridor and the door swung open to reveal Vintage, her arms covered in steaming plates.
‘There you are, my darling, would you mind giving me a hand with these? I thought I’d bring dinner to you. The dining room is very pleasant but I’ve always thought this room was very cosy, and Tormalin has already flounced off somewhere. And I’ll be honest with you, there’s a pile of books on the dining-room table that I can’t be bothered to find a home for right at this moment.’
Noon jumped up and together they wrestled the plates onto the long table. There were thick slices of some sort of gamey-smelling pie, covered in hot gravy and roasted root vegetables, and a huge bowl of fluffy potato. Vintage had also managed to carry in a bottle of wine wedged under one arm and a handful of cutlery in her pocket. Noon stood back and watched as she set the table with practised ease, pouring them each a glass of wine in slightly dusty goblets. She then sat down and began to attack the pie with every sign of enjoyment.