What had he asked her? What of Lady Hallowtide, that was it. What of her?
“Murdered,” she said to test a new word, her head swimming. “It's hot in here. Is it hot in here?” She started to remove her cloak but hesitated. There was a reason she wasn't supposed to take it off. A reason to keep it near her. But what was it? The recent events seemed like a bad dream from another time. The ale and the heat of closely-pressed bodies—Evenon’s in particular—had her in a pleasant fog that dulled not just the senses, but everything she had been worrying about.
On her other side, Estrid had shed her own cloak and her bare shoulders brushed dangerously close to Sibba, though the other girl's attention was on Ari and the game of hnefatafl they played on the board between them. Sibba's eyes followed the pale flesh on Estrid's arm as she picked up one of her pieces and moved it forward two spots. Ari cursed.
“My condolences. Will you avenge your mother's murder?” Evenon watched her, his eyes searching her face. There was something familiar in the way he spoke, like he was picking out each sound carefully.
“I already did.” His gaze never faltered; she felt a flush creeping up her neck. The fog was suddenly suffocating. “I think I need some fresh air,” she said, or thought she said, lifting a leg to turn around and tipping dangerously to the side. His hand was on her arm before she could fall, and she studied it, the long fingers, the trimmed fingernails, the leather wrist-guard on his left arm, laced tight with a cord.
He also stood, drawing Sibba's attention back to his face, her eyes zeroing in on the gash there. She reached her hand up to touch it but he turned his head away. “Maybe we both should go outside.” It took her a few steps to realize that he was guiding her. Her feet didn't seem to obey her mind, like she was two different people, completely disconnected.
The cold air hit her like a brick wall, but the mood outside was no different than it had been inside. To the left was the storehouse where they had deposited their weapons before entering the longhouse, which for Sibba included the ax and the crow sword. To the right of the longhouse, a group was playing a knife-throwing game, made even more fun by their inebriation. Though she couldn't see exactly what they were doing, she immediately turned that way. It seemed like a strangely good idea in that moment to throw a sharp object at something.
“Oh, no you don't,” Evenon said, steering her by her shoulders. She had forgotten he was there. Who was he, anyway, to tell her what to do? She hadn't needed minding, not even from her own mother, for years now.
“I want to go the other way,” she said, spinning on her heel and toppling to the ground. The group—mostly men—had taken notice of her and were taunting her. A man tossed a knife and it landed in the dirt near her hand. She snatched it up before Evenon could, and pushed herself to her feet, brushing off her hands and knees.
“You really shouldn't—”
But she was already gone, lumbering toward the men. Her feet felt ten times too big. One of the men held a horn of ale and she took it from him, drinking its contents in two giant gulps.
“At it again, Sibba-girl?” the man asked. She didn't know who he was, but he obviously remembered her.
“Looks like her tastes have changed,” someone else chimed in. They laughed when Sibba flicked her thumbs at them.
Dropping the horn to the ground, she took her place at the line they had etched in the dirt. The target seemed to pulse wildly, the painted circles swirling black lines in her vision. She held the tip of the knife between two fingers and drew it back to her ear. There was movement to her side and a small figure ran in front of the target. A child.
“Sibba!” Evenon called and she turned, the knife already flying from her fingers. The world kept spinning after she had stopped and she fell, hearing the knife hit something but not able to see what.
“Did I kill you?” she asked, and the response was a roar of laughter from the men around the target.
“No,” Evenon answered. “You just killed the wall.” He lifted her to her feet.
“Oh boy.” She stumbled away from him. She made it to the alley between the longhouse and its outbuilding before collapsing against the wall, bracing her hands on her knees.
Evenon was right behind her. “Are you all right?”
A tattoo snaked out of his collar and seemed to pulse at her. She groaned and closed her eyes. Part of her—a huge part—wanted to push him away, but then she remembered Estrid with Ari, swore she could hear the girl’s laugh over the ruckus inside, and instead pulled him close against her.
“Sibba,” he said, his voice a low growl, “are you—”
She cut him off by pressing her lips against his. It was urgent and rough, more out of a need for him to shut up than out of desire. He nudged her mouth open with his tongue while his hands ran up her sides, then back down again. They found one of her cloak pockets and suddenly one of his hands was in it instead of on her.
“Hey,” she started to protest, but he trapped her mouth again and shoved her flush against the longhouse wall with a bang. Her hands trailed up his solid chest and came to rest on his shoulders. His free hand tugged her hair and she lifted her chin, his lips and teeth trailing along her jaw and neck. She forgot all about his hands. His knee nudged her legs apart and she kissed the spot on his neck where his pulse fluttered, feeling—
Feeling both of his hands digging through her cloak.
She dropped her hands from around his neck and grabbed his wrists. “What are you doing?” This close, she saw that his eyes were such a light brown they were nearly gold. The sight of them was somehow familiar.
Suddenly saliva was hot in her mouth. She spat to the side, but then the bile began to rise, and she shoved him away just in time to vomit the entire meal she had just eaten. It was not as good coming back up. When she was finally done, she sank to the ground, her back to the wall. Evenon gave a frustrated groan and ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends so it stood up straight.
“Just go away,” Sibba said. The crisp night air and the vomiting had sobered her. Evenon stood over her, his hands on his hips, but she didn’t raise her gaze. Then he looked out of the alley, back to the knife throwers and the drunken wanderers on the street.
“Wait here,” he told her, and then he was gone.
? ? ?
Sibba didn't know how long she lay in the darkness of that alley before Estrid appeared, brandishing Sibba's ax and an extended hand. Sibba shook her head at her.
“Just leave me here,” she said. If there was even a chance that Evenon was out there and would see her, then she would rather stay hidden in the dark.
Instead of going, Estrid slid to the dirt beside her, pulling her dress down around her knees and leaning against the wall.
“You're going to get dirty,” Sibba said, turning her head away from Estrid and closing her eyes.
She felt Estrid shrug. “The dress will clean.”