“Look, my husband likes you. I should give you the benefit of the doubt and at leasttry,” she said matter-of-factly. Her eyes scanned over him again, appraising. “Besides, you’re the one who looks like you could use some company.”
He really, really did. Even now, his heart raced, still trying to escape the long-dead threat of Vian Wolf.
Bridgette hummed, reading his silence, before she jerked her head towards the stairs. “C’mon then.”
Arlon obeyed the command and fell into step beside her. She led them down the stairs of the abjuration tower and through the main atrium before cutting towards the transmutation yard. It seemed to be a familiar route for her, and Arlon was glad to only have to think about putting one foot in front of the other.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” Bridgette said as they emerged into the yard, finally breaking the silence that hung between them.
“For what?” Arlon asked, not quite able to hide his surprise.
Bridgette shrugged as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small clay pipe. “Garrett has had a harder time settling in here than I have. Your sparring sessions have helped.”
She walked over to the pagoda of woven trees before shetook a seat on the bench underneath them. A match sparked against the side of the clay pipe before Bridgette lit its contents. She drew out a few puffs, and Arlon caught the familiar scent of tobacco and skunkweed.
“You want any? It helps me sleep when I’m having a rough night,” she said as she held the pipe out to him, smoke pouring from her lips.
Arlon eyed the offering before he took it. The clay pipe was comically small in his hand, but he filled his lungs with smoke before letting it out on a sigh.
“Fuck,” he murmured, the familiar taste plucking at a few good memories from his time with the Wolves. How many late nights had he spent smoking around a campfire, bullshitting about everything and nothing?
“Good, right?” Bridgette said, grinning as she took the pipe back. “Came from this apothecary in town. Far nicer than anything I ever found in Frostcliff.”
Arlon handed the pipe back to her before he took a seat on the bench next to her. “Do you ever miss Frostcliff?”
To his surprise, Bridgette laughed. “Godsno. Not even a little bit. Frostcliff is a shithole compared to Straetham.”
Arlon chuckled as she took another puff out of the pipe. “Frostcliff wasn’t so bad.”
Bridgette released a plume of smoke into the air before handing the pipe back to him. “Spoken like someone who could come and go as he pleased.”
Arlon scoffed before he drew in a deep breath, the smoke dancing over his tongue. It felt strange to smoke without a drink in hand, but the nightmare was a good reminder of why he’d never touch a drop again. “We didn’t come and go, we snuck in and fled once we overstayed our welcome. That’s what happens when you’re wanted in damn near every town in the Hobokins.”
Bridgette hummed as she took the pipe back from him. “Garrett told me that you were with the Wolves for some time.”
He should have assumed this was where the conversation was going. It seemed like there was no escaping the thought of Vian tonight. “Too long.”
“How’d you fall in with them?”
Arlon sighed, and maybe it was the comfortable haze of the skunkweed that loosened his tongue enough to say, “It was the worst day of my life. You really want to hear about it?”
Another curl of smoke left Bridgette’s mouth, and she folded one knee, laying it across the top of the bench so she could turn to face him. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
Arlon raised an eyebrow but took the offered pipe all the same. He drew in a fortifying lungful of smoke before he said, “That morning, I’d lit my mother’s funeral pyre. That afternoon, I lost my home when my caravan kicked me out.”
Bridgette was silent as he took another long drag on the pipe before saying, “That evening, Vian and his pack caught up to me on the road. Tried to rob me. I had a death wish and nothing to lose, so I fought back. Vian later told me that he liked mytenacity.” He spit the word like venom. “Instead of leaving me for dead, they took me back to their camp.”
“Gods, Arlon.” Bridgette’s voice was filled with equal parts horror and sympathy. “How old were you?”
Arlon handed the pipe back to her, not quite able to meet her eyes. “Sixteen.”
Bridgette scoffed, cradling the pipe in her lap. “Sixteen’s a cursed age.”
“Why do you say that?”
“That’s how old I was when my da sold me to that godsforsaken brothel to pay off his gambling debts,” Bridgette murmured.
Arlon looked at the woman in surprise. Her head was lowered, her long silver hair cascading over her shoulders to obscure her face.
