We strolled at a welcome meander, given my weakened state.
Marcellious walked behind us.
I dropped back to speak to Marcellious.
“Why did you call me your wife? I wouldn’t marry you even if a gun was to my head,” I hissed.
“I thought you were in trouble. I was only trying to help. Believe me, I don’t want to be wedded to you any more than you want to be wedded to me.” He left my side and quickened his steps to catch up with John James.
“Bastard,” I muttered.
As we made our way through the woods, I noticed birds chirping and the play of the sun through the bare-leafed branches. I hadn’t seen anything except my dark and vicious thoughts for weeks.
I stopped to marvel at my surroundings. Although still icy-cold and wintery, the forest appeared beautiful, with snow patches here and there. I blinked, almost bewildered to notice everything. It was like the fog clearing, and I embraced it for however long it lasted.
“Hey. Olivia! Keep up!” Marcellious demanded, walking toward me. He grabbed my arm and tugged me along.
I wrenched my arm away. “I don’t need your help to walk, asshole.”
“You sure seem to. Keep moving! I guess I must babysit you until we reach James’ place.” He glowered.
I simmered but said nothing, following along.
We arrived at a small cottage, barely big enough to accommodate one person, let alone three. We squeezed into the one-room dwelling.
John James retrieved a wooden box and a metal milk canister from the floor and placed them around his makeshift table made from a tree trunk and a piece of a door.
“Can I get you some water?” John James said.
“Yes, that would be lovely,” I said, having re-discovered my manners somewhere.
“Sure. Thanks.” Marcellious perched on the overturned milk canister.
I sat on the chair and studied my surroundings as John James poured water into three glass jars from a pitcher.
The cottage had been crafted from hewn logs and had one sash window. A metal frame bearing a stuffed mattress and a couple scratchy-looking wool blankets stood pushed against the wall. A squat potbelly stove held court in the corner, with one iron burner on top. A greasy cast iron pan rested on top of the burner.
My fingers itched to take the pan down to the creek and clean it. I supposed John James relied on heat over cleanliness to sanitize his food.
Herbs and native plants hung upside down from every rafter, giving the cottage a fragrant, earthy smell. Papers with strange diagrams on them lay scattered on the table before us.
I peered at one of the papers. Numbers, lines, and notes covered the page, but John James’ handwriting was too tiny to be legible.
John James scooped up the papers, tapped them into a tidy bundle, and set them on his bed. Then, he retrieved the water and placed the glasses before us.
“It’s from a nearby spring,” he said as he lifted his glass to his lips. “Best water you’ll ever taste.”
I took a small sip, then gulped several more swallows. It tasted divine.
“I can pour you some more,” he said, looking at me expectantly.
I was consumed with hunger and thirst.
“Yes, please, and thank you,” I said, thrusting the jar toward him.
“And you, sir?” John James said to Marcellious.
“I’m good. I haven’t been starving myself, of late, or depriving myself of water.” He skewered me with his gaze before turning back to John James.
