“We don’t have boots to spare!” the older man shouted.
“Aw, come now, Papa. We could use the help. Didn’t you say just this morn you wish you was fishing instead?” He patted the stooped man on the shoulder to lead him away, giving Paxton a few last bits of information over his shoulder as he went.
Paxton nodded and set to work immediately. He turned the bunches of oysters in their beds to smooth out the calcified edges and create deeper grooves for the growing flesh inside. His body numbed to the chill of the water and breeze, and he soaked in the moments when the clouds dispersed, allowing sun to shine down on his back and shoulders.
As the sun began to set, Paxton heard footsteps rustling along the path, and he quickly muddied his hands, which had been cleaned by the water. He stood, his muscles sore, and faced the man who looked around the marshy cove before giving a satisfied nod.
Paxton came ashore and the man held out a used long-sleeved brown tunic and a worn pair of boots with sturdy soles.
“These were my brother-in-law’s. They might be a tad big, but they’re all I could find.”
“Thank you.” Paxton took them, grateful.
“Would you care to stay for supper?”
He longed to accept their hospitality, but he knew it would come with an array of questions.
“I appreciate your kindness, but I need to head back before my family worries.”
The man nodded and pulled a cloth from his deep hip pocket. “I thought you might say that. Here is a bit of food. I wish you safe travels. Blessings of the seas.”
Paxton gave a small bow of his head just as his stomach growled. They both laughed. “Blessings to you and yours, as well.”
The man left him to dress, and Paxton ate the slice of grainy bread; sharp cheese; and dried, salted fish as he walked. He was famished but forced himself to eat slowly. He would sleep outdoors again, drinking from fresh springs. And each day he would work to try and earn food and money to buy a bow and new daggers. He couldn’t face the foreign lands without protection.
But unfortunately there was no protection against the things that hurt him the most—the things inside his heart that left his chest vastly empty, hollowing him with a sense of loss, forcing him to remember when all he wanted to do was forget.
Paxton was fast asleep on a bed of leaves when a snap awoke him. He rose to his knees, grabbing the makeshift spear he’d made. Clouds covered the sliver of moon. Paxton squinted into the darkness. A low, feminine chuckle sounded from the depths of the night. He pulled back his arm as a form solidified through the trees.
Paxton exhaled and sank back on his heels. “Zandora, I nearly pierced you through.”
“With what? That stick? Men . . . always with the dramatics.”
Paxton grinned, despite his racing heart. “What are you doing here?”
“Tracking you, of course.”
“Why?” A moment of apprehension went through him. Had the king asked her to find him? Did they know he’d worked magic? But, no, this was Zandora. He shook away his worries.
“Would you prefer to hunt with that stick and sleep on the ground forever, Paxton Seabolt? Or join us on our return journey to Zorfina?”
Relief and the promise of companionship settled over him. “I will join you.”
“I had no doubt, Lashed One.”
He stilled, though there was no threat or judgment in her voice. He wasn’t certain how she’d found out—if it was common knowledge now, or if Tiern had confided in her—but he supposed it didn’t matter.
Zandora whistled, and moments later her two sisters appeared, two on horseback, one leading Zandora’s horse. She said something to them in Zorfinan, and the older sister tossed Paxton his pack.
“Ah, bless you.” He’d never been happier to see his material things.
“Now. Move over and share your leaves.”
Paxton obliged. As the sisters joined him on the ground, he wondered what Zandora would have chosen in his position: to kill the beast or save one of her sisters. Did she think him a fool, like Lord Alvi, the future prince of these lands? Paxton cursed himself for the trivial thoughts. It was all inconsequential.
He could not allow himself to look back, to wonder what was happening at the castle, to imagine Lief and Aerity . . . no.
He could only move forward.
Chapter
41
Aerity stood before her chamber mirror in a gown of the purest, softest white—her betrothal dress for the engagement ceremony. Her gut clenched at the merry sounds of voices outside the castle walls. It had been one week since the beast was slain. Rozaria Rocato had not been found, but neither had there been any new attacks.