“We’re leaving. Now. Pack only what’s necessary,” Sir announces, already untying horses from the fence. “Convene north of the camp in five minutes.”
His words push into me like walking through a market only to smack into a cloud of putrid sewer air. “We’re running?” I squeak, holstering my chakram. “Can’t we just—”
Sir steps toward me, and even in the dark I can see his eyes are bloodshot. That’s all the emotion he ever shows, in his eyes. “I will not take chances, not when we’re finally so close. Start packing or mount a horse.”
He spins away, taking a few steps through the grass until he reaches Mather, grabs his arm, and hisses something that makes the expression on Mather’s face mimic the shocked, angry one on my own. Sir hurries to the rest, spitting the same orders at them—pack what you can, no time to waste. They separate, scurrying into camp to obey him.
Sir doesn’t see them as he talks. His eyes dart across the horizon, stoic, calm. A boulder in the ocean, standing strong against crashing waves. Herod may be big and dark, but Sir is big and light—just as towering, just as threatening, with strength built on the pure pull of revenge.
With him leading us, how did we ever lose to Angra?
“Meira.”
I flinch. Mather’s beside me now, my focus so fixed on Sir that I didn’t hear him approach. Mather smiles when I flinch, but it’s marred by the sweat streaked across his forehead, by the panic around us.
“You let me sneak up on you?” he guesses, trying for lightness.
I shrug. “I have to let you think you’re good at something.”
He nods, lips relaxing as he watches me with a calm, solemn stare. Like we’ve never had to abandon camp or had to run off into the night in divided groups until we all reconvene somewhere safe. We’ve done this at least a dozen times since we were small enough to remember, but he’s looking at me now like he’s never had to leave me before.
“Mather?” It comes out as a question.
He swings toward me, stops, pulls back, dancing around like he can’t gather up the courage to do something. My throat closes, shock choking me, not letting me dare hope that he’s going to do what I think—
Finally he sweeps in and lifts me against him. A tight, whole-body hug as his arms come around my back, holding me to his chest with my feet dangling in the air, his face in my neck.
“I’ll find a way to fix this,” he tells me, his words vibrating across my skin, tremors that shake my very foundation.
Slowly, carefully, I relax into him, my arms going around his neck. “I know,” I whisper. When he starts to put me down I cling more tightly, keeping my mouth to his ear. I have to say these words, but I can’t bring myself to look at him as they spill from my lips. “We all know, Mather. You’ll do everything you can for Winter. No one has ever thought less of you, and I think—I know—that Hannah would be proud that you’re her son.”
He doesn’t respond, just holds me there, panting into the space between us. I want to push my face down to his; I want to stay like this, lingering just beyond kissing, forever. The conflicting desires make my pulse accelerate until I’m sure he can feel its rhythm beating on his chest. I can feel his, the fast thump of his heart galloping against my stomach.
In a quick burst of motion he sets me down, slides one hand around the back of my neck, and plants a kiss on my jaw, his lips lingering on my skin, leaving permanent trails of lightning in my veins. His chest deflates, the tension on his face unwinding as he pulls back from me. I catch a glimmer in his eyes, the finest sheen of tears. He doesn’t say anything or agree with me or do more than give my fingers one final squeeze.
Then he’s gone. Hurrying into camp to pack or saddle his horse or whatever Sir ordered him to do.
I stand in the middle of the horse pen, one hand on my jaw. My eyes flick up, searching for Mather amidst the chaos.
What was that?
But I know what it was. Or at least, I know what I want it to be—what I’ve always wanted it to be. What I constantly have to tell myself can never, ever be. But why now, in the midst of leaving, when I can’t corner him and make him explain or figure out some way to ignore that it even happened? Because it did happen. My jaw feels like it’s been branded by his mouth, and no matter how many times I repeat, “He’s our future king” to myself, I can’t get the impression of Mather’s lips out of my skin.
I don’t want to get their impression out of my skin.
Sir slides in front of me, dragging two horses already saddled. “Pack your things.”