Shadow War: Book 3 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy (WIP Rough Draft)

25. The Local Drunk

8th of Braxos

The petals of the rose had opened a little further. They were barely visible, just a suggestion of gold in the early morning gloom of the loft, but I could pick out the faint fragrance of honeyed apple hanging in the air.

It was a scent that brought back memories of sun-drenched garden walks and peaceful afternoons. Memories of another lifetime. A different me, in direct contrast to the me with the calloused hands and the salt-roughened skin. The me who currently felt like I had rubbed hot sand into my eyes and put my body through the laundry wringer. Sleep had not come easy, and when it had finally arrived, I had spent my dreams running from things I couldn't see.

Those dreams weren't actually worse than lying there, staring up at the ceiling, tormenting myself with that kiss. The way Arramy's arms had tightened around me as he pulled me close. That low, raspy, masculine sound he had made when I kissed him back —

There was a thump in the sitting room: Arramy's folded blanket hitting the top of his pillow.

I blinked, my heart doing a funny little rearrangement in my ribs.

He was awake, moving around in the dark. Getting ready for work. There was the chink of tokens in the meter, the thunk of the pan on the stove. The sizzle of frying eggs. Normal. Just like yesterday, and the day before. Like nothing was any different.

After a moment, I pushed myself up and sat cross-legged, staring balefully out into the top half of the sitting room. Then I shoved myself all the way to my feet and began pulling my clothes on. There was nothing for it. I was going to have to face him sooner or later. Might as well get it over with. I would just have to go down there and pretend everything was normal, too. I could do that. I could pretend I hadn't pretended to kiss the man I was pretending was my husband.

So easy.

The irony almost made me grin and sniffle miserably at the same time as I finished lacing up the front of my work blouse, then steeled myself, turned, and made myself march downstairs, all quick and efficient.

Arramy glanced up at me, then down at the pan of eggs he was stirring. Silent.

I sat in my chair. Prim. Proper. Determined to ignore the lack of greeting even though that was not normal. I looked down and realized I had forgotten to tie my hair up. My hair scarf was still peeking out of the pocket of my skirt. That wasn't normal either. Stifling a sigh of impatience, I scooted my chair back and undid my night braid, shaking my hair free. Then I clamped my scarf between my teeth and began pulling my wild mane into a braid I could wrap up into a knot at the back of my head. It was something I had done countless times, but not usually in front of anyone.

I finished tying the scarf around my head to trap my hair, and turned to find Arramy facing the stove, unmoving for a split-second, the scrape-spoon stationary in his hand. The muscles in his jaw flexed. Then he shook his head slightly, reached up and took our miss-matched plates off the shelf. He scooped eggs onto both plates, put one plate in front of me, the other in front of him, and sat down on his side of the table, his eyes never meeting mine.

He wasn't angry, though. He was... sad. No, that wasn't quite right either. I studied him, trying to read him. In the muted light of the lamp over the table, he was somehow older than he had been yesterday. Bruises were rising on his jaw, but that only gave him a scruffy, scrappy edge. This was different. There was a subtle stillness about him, a quietness in every rugged line of his face, a calm, measured reserve in the way he moved.

The day before, he had pulled a stray bit of pillow down from my head scarf and told me I should at least try to keep my moltings to myself – for which I snatched the last piece of his toast and ran out the back door with it, giggling while he chased me around the yard. That had ended with him carrying me back into the house over his shoulder, demanding more toast.