Well, almost no one. Rest assured, some idiot’s thinking about looting the flour mill. And I swear, the stocks are a right mess, crammed with crooks but no guards.
I’ll bet several pip-squeaks are planning on sneaking out of their cottages to squat at the livery, where they’ll pass around a bottle of elderberry wine. I know, because I used to be one of those rascals. Each time on my way back home, I’d cavort with the nightingales.
A chill pebbles my skin. While distant villagers finish doing distant village things, I’ve just finished doing my latest admirer. The wanderer had been passing through the Hollow and hankering for an hour’s company. He was older than me, maybe twenty-five to my nineteen years. With my family gone, I’d craved an orgasm and brought him up to my room.
At one point, the wanderer bit my neck, so I had to elbow his funny bone. I’d spelled out the rules before we started. No roughhousing or nipping.
It was over quick. He’s snoring in my bed now. Gotta wake him up soon.
I curl up on the pillows I’d brought outside, relaxing to the sounds of birdsong. Then the air shifts, brushing the scars on my kneecaps. I tense and lurch upright. The current could be what it seems, just a current, just a lash of wind. Or it could be something else.
The early evening breeze slips by, rustling the leaves. Once the sensation’s gone, my shoulders unwind, and my eyes close. Words from the Book of Fables surface in my head and fall from my lips,“Under the vicious stars, an Owl crossed paths with a Lark. And the Lark said—”
The market square bell tolls, the brass gong vibrating through the trees. Better hurry. I’d brought my knickers outside with me, so I stand and wiggle into a pair of skimpy drawers, then wrap a ribbon of cloth into a bandeau around my breasts. Once I’ve harnessed the goods, I shrug into my robe and strap my feet in ankle boots.
A triangular window leads from the balcony to the attic bedroom. I climb through and drop into the space, where three wardrobe cupboards and slender beds claim each of the wood-slat walls. A perfectly made quilt covers one mattress, the lip folded neatly beneath a matching pillow. A soft sheet drapes fluidly across the other. And on the third bed, a bolt of cotton slumps across a bulk of muscles.
I admire the man sprawled facedown atop my mattress, his arms flopped over the edge. He’s got buzzard-brown hair, the longest damn eyelashes in history, and a sword scar puckering from his shoulder. Hot damn. He’s a looker, if there ever was one. Shame his loving hadn’t been as blessed as his face.
When I glimpse his lower back, I realize I’ve got a problem. Inked crossbow bolts form an X at the base of his spine. Bile washes up my throat, my fancy for him taking a nosedive.
Shit. A trade poacher.
From the backyard, our resident falcon belts out a rasping “kak.” The avian can’t know what’s happening, but the alarm call causes a surge of protectiveness to climb up my fists. Of all the wanderers I could have rolled with, I’d gone and picked this git.
Some people poach because they’re starving. Not this one. His tattoo marks the difference, a symbol of the louts who stalk animals as a trade, profiting from valuable fauna parts.
Not many people know about that secret tattoo, but I know what to look for—thanks to Juniper.
I want to kick this man’s tail out of my bed. I want to boot him so hard, he’ll be airborne and flying off our land. He’s an outsider, not a tenant of this community, so this whole thing might be a coincidence—or not. Because of my family’s specialty, this chap might have come here with an agenda but got sidetracked by my tits. With a bunch of innocent animals roaming freely in his proximity, I can’t be too careful.
He’s a log, so I check his pant pockets, using a sleight of hand I’d learned from Cove. After that, I mosey to the chair and fuss with his satchel. My hand fumbles around, feeling something long, fringed, and tapered. I stiffen, recognizing the size and shape. Oh, hell no.
I yank out the blue feather, its fringes bathed in the ethereal, blue-black pigment of nightfall.
My heart stutters, the Fable rekindling in my mind.And the Lark said, “We may fly separately, but let our direction be the same.”
I must have left the feather someplace where this git—whatever his name is—noticed it and licked his chops. A prize like this is the stuff of otherworldly magic. This quill’s the perfect candidate for a fat sack of coins, which’ll likely turn out to be phony, since the nearest bargainer in a three-mile radius isn’t known for being a sucker.
I’ll be taking my possession back, thank you very much. As I wedge the feather into the binding around my chest, a groan rumbles from the bed. The scruffy noise lets loose as if it’s been stuffed in a jar, collecting dust all this time.
I can tell a few things about men based on how they fuck. For a start, this poacher’s got no swagger. He’s rash, all brawn and temper, considering the love bite he gave me. Not to mention what his movements did to the headboard and the vicelike grip he kept on my hips. He holds tight, which means he likes control, which mean he’ll get testy if I try to rush an exit. In case this really is a fluke, I’ve gotta butter him up, sweet talk him out of here.
My whip is looped around one of the footboard finials. I pluck the weapon and sling it over my arm like an accessory, then grasp the footboard and lean forward to expose my cleavage. “Finally,” I purr. “Have a deep one, handsome?”
The git sits up, the wide goblet of his head balancing on the thin stem of his neck as he aims a lopsided grin at my chest. “Well, aren’t you a sight.”
“Sorry it took you so long to wake up. I’ve got bad news, hon. Seems you’re trespassing.”
“Want me gone already?”
“I’m a busy girl.” I sway the whip and tease, “Better get moving, or I’ll have to string you up.”
“That sounds like a naughty threat. With this kind of bawdy talk, maybe I’d like seconds.”
Fables curse him. “The first romp was for fun, which means it was free. Seconds don’t come cheaply.”
I don’t sell myself, so I’m not serious and make sure my smile is coy. Keeping it simple is keeping it believable. Longer explanations bury people in a pile of dung.
