The Twisting

by Laurel Wanrow

  “Yes, but…” Mercy, this was embarrassing, but she had to know. “How fast does it start working?”

  Mrs. Pemberton lifted her hand to cover her mouth, but not before Annmar saw her smile. “That’s the best part about Regulatia. Immediately. That’s also the worst part. If you forget, it’ll be out of your system in a day or two.”

  “Er, thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.” Mrs. Pemberton patted her shoulder. Then she set Annmar’s breakfast, including a small dish of applesauce, on a nearby table and removed her own to another table.

  Annmar eyed the applesauce and the napkin clenched in her hand. She should just go ahead and take the Regulatia. Doing so, she’d be one step closer to being prepared if anything should happen between her and Daeryn. Not that she planned anything so forward with him, but… But she might. Sometime. If they got to the point where…

  Where what? She wasn’t sure. But she was going to want to do it someday.

  Mrs. Pemberton said, “I want a cup of tea, dear. Shall I bring you one as well?”

  “Uh, no, thank you.”

  “Very well.”

  As soon as she left, Annmar grabbed the spoon. A scoop of the crumbled leaves disappeared into the applesauce, and she tasted the flecked mixture. The usual cinnamon flavor was now slightly buttery, with another flavor mixed in. She took a bigger spoonful and rolled it over her tongue. It tasted like nothing she’d ever eaten. Yet it did taste.

  Not bad. Not like medicine, at any rate. She finished the bowlful, making sure to get every bit of dried leaf, then took a few bites of egg. But she couldn’t eat more. She lay down, pulled the covers up high over her shoulders and rolled to face the wall. The herb didn’t make her feel nauseated or anything, but… How could such a little thing carry such weight?

  Chapter TEN

  By asking around, Daeryn tracked down Rivley, then had to wait to the side while his best friend finished some adjustments to the All-Sorts Harvester with Master Brightwell. Daeryn leaned against the farthest storage shed in a growing patch of sunlight, glad for the few minutes to calm the turmoil of his innards and rehash his conversation with Annmar.

  Awkward ending, but maybe not too bad. She hadn’t gotten mad. She’d looked happy, even. He would learn if Riv had noticed anything else while they’d been with Old Terry. Anything Annmar could learn about this hedge-rider would help when they went to meet the…woman. Though the best protection against the Basin’s wilder residents was to avoid them.

  The next steps he took with Annmar were important. He could feel it. Rivley was the perfect person to check with on this. Daeryn rubbed his fingers over the corners of his tired eyes. He’d never had to court Sylvan in the formal sense of the word. She’d just been his, like he was hers. No questions asked. Yet Riv had courted hawk after hawk, a few falcons and once a badger female in their mountain Borderlands. Much like his time here at Wellspring, he’d never seemed to be with one of them for any length of time, so there’d been a wealth of examples. If only Daeryn had paid attention.

  Annmar’s hug had confirmed he could enter her territory. If all went well, he’d never have to stop thinking about her, smelling her, being close to her.

  That was the life he once thought he’d have with Sylvan.

  Daeryn tipped his head to the wall and squelched the wave of sadness. Certain memories brought springs of happiness: the good years growing up, various pranks and adventures they shared. And then, most naturally, sharing themselves. But now, planning his future reminded him how special she’d been.

  He sucked a breath. “Sylvan is…gone.”

  There. He’d said it aloud. He forced down the lump in his throat and, after a moment, shoved his hand under his shirt. He rubbed the spiral piercing, with its half crystal set in the center, the matching half of the garnet bloodstone in Rivley’s spiral.

  They’d split the crystal during the Elder’s blood-binding ceremony, reciting some chant about using connections and reclaiming what was lost to become whole again. All that blather hadn’t meant a damn thing to him then, so soon after Sylvan’s death. He’d been numb when he’d pierced Rivley’s belly. Then Rivley had pierced his flesh with the needle-like tip, three times to rotate the silver in place, and Daeryn had welcomed the pain. Pain had made him forget, at least for a night, that he was alone.

  When Rivley had suggested they move to the valley for a change, he’d meant to try to forget Sylvan, though neither of them had ever said it aloud. Rivley had also grown up with her, but seemed to recover faster as the lowlands seasons passed, full of work and activities and females. None of them Sylvan. They couldn’t be. Daeryn thought of her most every day, though he tried not to. He was more successful at ignoring his and Rivley’s gildan. He hated to admit it, but Rivley standing up to him a week ago had knocked some sense into Daeryn. Their success with the first lesson—Leaders must let leaders lead—felt great, and he was ready to work with Riv on the second.

  He had to if he wanted Annmar.

  “So, you holding up that wall for the day, or you got a new way of sleeping the rest of us should try?” Rivley asked, an edge underlying his playful words.

  Daeryn’s eyes flashed open. Rivley was already several steps past, though his pacing was dragging behind Master Brightwell’s. Daeryn shoved off the wall. “Riv, wait.”

  Rivley turned with an irritated frown as he hefted the bucket of tools in his hand.

  Damn, this might not be the best time to ask Riv’s advice on winning Annmar, or even to have a word about that hedge-rider or addressing the second gildan lesson.

  They got to the bunkhouse, and Master Brightwell pulled the doors shut, leaving a body-width opening. “Keep the workshop closed up. That Eradicator salesman is coming, and we don’t need him seeing any of our inventions.”

  Rivley nodded, and the inventor continued across the farmyard.

  “What do you want?” asked Rivley. “I’ve got to put these away, then I’m going to get a bite to eat before I go to bed, and I want to sleep once I’m there.”

  His tone made it clear there’d be no talking in their room, and when Daeryn looked at Rivley, really looked at how the normally straight-backed avian slouched, other details popped out: His hair stood in tufts of mixed down, lines furrowed his forehead and dirt covered every inch of freckled skin. His shirt could have been used to wipe down a tractor, and the outer thighs of his trousers bore long swipes of grease.

  This wasn’t the finickety friend he knew, and a whole different set of words fell from Daeryn’s mouth than he’d planned. “How you doing?”

  Rivley grunted. He stomped into the workshop.

  Daeryn hesitated. Riv’s foul mood might lead to another row, one that could undo the progress they’d made. But backing off didn’t seem right either when Riv was so down. Maybe that’s what was wrong, Daeryn not being there enough for his friend. By damn, he would have to prod. Daeryn slipped in, stood at the workbench and separated a few bolts from the tools Rivley had dumped on the workbench. “Bad night, huh?”

  “We got next to nothing done on refitting the Harvester. Every time I disconnected a pincer, in came another viewer to be repaired. Hell, I don’t fault any one of them for jumping clear any way they could, but Creator take him, I wish rolling wasn’t Wyatt’s default reaction. I’ve never known him to be so acrobatic.” Rivley slammed down a wrench on the last word.

  Hell? If Daeryn thought back, he could probably count the number of times he’d heard Rivley curse over the years. Now it’d been twice in days. Not to mention the flood of complaints. “Er, it is an avian-like move.”

  Rivley blew out a breath. “Through and through. And after the night you all had, I had to bite my tongue, though last time he also cracked a solder joint on the stunner and the brew leaked onto the chamber-opening gears. Stopped the mechanism cold, and we had to repair it, too.”

  Daeryn eyed him. So Wyatt wasn’t the problem. No, Rivley and Wyatt were on good terms. “You must have fixed them qui
ck. I never noticed any of the others taking a break.”

  Rivley snorted. “They didn’t need to. Master Brightwell sent out swapping pairs. That damned Leander ran them back and forth all night.”

  Another curse. “Right. He did make a lot of deliveries.”

  Tossing the bucket in a corner, Rivley glared and swiped down the feathers sprouting in his hair. He turned and shuffled outside without a word.

  Aha. The forest cat was the problem. Daeryn followed and closed the door after them. There was something here. Something he was missing in all this. “Didn’t meet the fellow properly. Good worker?”

  “Don’t know.” Rivley stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked toward the main house. “You’d have to ask Mary Clare.”

  By the Path, that was it. “She knows him?” He shouldn’t ask directly. “Like he was a neighbor?”

  “Who knows? But it’s clear she plans to know him better.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say, What did you expect? But Daeryn coughed instead, earning a sharp look from Rivley.

  “Go ahead, say it,” he hissed.

  This wasn’t the time to beat Rivley into the ground. And honestly, Mary Clare always turned up in his bed again.

  Rivley stopped under the tree, looking all but ready for a fight. “What’s with you?”

  “I’m…sorry.”

  Rivley frowned, then looked away. “Well, so am I,” he said flatly. “Nothing else to do.”

  “I mean about being so down on her.” Rivley opened his mouth, and Daeryn rushed on. “She was nice to me, actually nice, when I was sneaking into Annmar’s room. She could have told Miz Gere and had me kicked out. She didn’t. She didn’t tell Annmar either. She risked their friendship on that one, considering what an ass I’d been.”

  “Which time?”

  Daeryn started to snap back, but the hurt in Rivley’s eyes stopped him. This wasn’t his usual nothing else to do. Something about Mary Clare finding a new lover had got Rivley’s feathers ruffled this time.

  “I’m going to eat,” Rivley muttered and stalked off.

  “Uh, right. Have a good meal.” Sure as hell he wasn’t bringing up their gildan now. What did a few days matter? He’d been so wrapped in his feelings for Annmar, he’d pushed aside other matters, more important matters, like his friend.

  Daeryn stared after Rivley’s slumped shoulders. It never used to be like this before… Before Sylvan died. He pushed that away. What had changed between him and Riv? It wasn’t like Sylvan had been their connection. Their friendship had existed before and after she and Daeryn had become mates. Daeryn drummed a finger on his belly piercing again. He and Riv had never seemed as close after they had become packmates.

  Growing up, they’d played and attended lessons together every day. Even during the tough years training for their Borderlands Protective Chain positions, they remained close. They tussled and competed, never holding back, each edging forward, but never harboring any ill feelings if the other did better. At least on his part.

  Daeryn squinted, watching Rivley open the farmhouse’s back door and enter. No, not on Riv’s either, though one incident during training could have split them. A badger female had bested Daeryn in a hunt trial. Afterward, Rivley, one of the spotters, had gone to the Elders to report she’d had help from her friend in locating her prey. One of the other avians had also seen it happen and wasn’t going to tell, but confirmed the cheating. That fellow had held back because Rivley and the badger were sweet on each other. Rivley speaking up had ended that relationship.

  Yet when Daeryn and Rivley had talked everything over afterward, Rivley said he was glad to find out she wasn’t honest before their relationship deepened. Things stayed the same between him and Riv through the rest of the training, through the final trials, through each of them earning alpha positions.

  Oh. Daeryn raked his fingers through his hair. That’s when something changed: when all the new packs suffered member switches. One of the older alpha polecats had confided in Daeryn that many pack members had a rough time adjusting the first year if they hadn’t made alpha, but their training group—a span of three birth years—seemed to be taking it worse than usual. The reason, this female alpha pointed out, was most likely because all their winning alphas were either from the youngest year—like Daeryn and Rivley—or female. The older males’ resentment was tainting everyone’s attitude.

  With no one’s pack staying solid, Daeryn asked Rivley to join him to present a more unified leadership. After a week’s consideration, Riv did. Though having the best beta possible didn’t end all of Daeryn’s pack problems, their pack fared better than the other new packs. Just a few nights ago, Rivley said he didn’t regret the decision, so that wasn’t what made the distance in their friendship, but it was when it happened. So what caused it?

  His mouth arched into a yawn. He had to give this some thought…and maybe not while he was so beat. Mary Clare turning to that forest cat might be Rivley’s current complaint, but their problem was older…and, he realized with a sinking feeling, probably related to what went wrong with their pack.

  * * *

  Annmar woke when the back door opened and shut. The voices in the hall stayed low and moved to Mistress Gere’s office. Murmurs carried through the adjoining wall and fully woke her.

  It must be later than she thought if Mrs. Pemberton had gone. As Miriam had instructed, Annmar had taken a nap. Her head felt clear, but the rest of her…oh, dear. She must have looked a sight when Daeryn saw her. The slept-in shirt and bib-and-brace were clean but rumpled. She ran fingers through her falling hair, removing the pins until she had her brush. Before going to her room to freshen up, she’d get a bite from the kitchen. Perhaps Mary Clare would be in there.

  As it turned out, Mary Clare wasn’t there, and with Mrs. Betsy busy directing the younger Pemberton girls, Annmar helped herself to a muffin, ate and slipped out the kitchen door.

  A carriage stood in the farmyard, Mistress Gere beside it speaking with the person inside. Putting her head down to project the polite appearance of not overhearing their conversation, Annmar gave them more privacy by walking the perimeter of the drive circling the walnut tree in the farmyard. Seconds later, the driver snapped the reins and the horses pulled the carriage forward. She stepped out of the way, feeling less self-conscious since Mistress Gere had gone indoors. The carriage passed her, then stopped. The door opened, and a dark head poked out, followed by a gentleman in a cream linen coat over a golden brown paisley waistcoat.

  Annmar’s stomach twisted like Mrs. Betsy ringing out her dishrag.

  Mr. Shearing. He was here.

  Though a voice in her head said run, she seemed to have frozen in place, unable to tear her gaze away as he strode closer. Her body automatically straightened, her spine stiffened and her teeth clenched to prevent any ill-advised words from slipping out.

  He stopped before her, sweeping off his top hat. “My dear Miss Masterson. This is the last place I expected to see you.”

  The words were stiff, formal, and didn’t quite ring true for the man she remembered. She noted his narrowed eyes studying her, how thin and tight his lips stretched and the erratic pulse flickering above his collar.

  Lord forbid, he was as determined as she’d ever seen him.

  When his hand extended, her stomach roiled. Annmar didn’t want to offer hers, but was unsure how to refuse. She hadn’t worn gloves since she’d arrived, but he was, thankfully, their color matching his waistcoat. His firm grip swallowed her hand and made the knots in her stomach tighten.

  “Good day.” She didn’t add the sir. She was no longer in his employ. Neither did she respect him anymore.

  He gave a tight laugh. “If it can be a good day in the wilds of Blighted Basin.” His lips curled in disgust as he cast a look around. “I nearly didn’t recognize you in these clothes, or with your hair down.” Without dropping her hand, he raked his gaze slowly over her body.

  Annmar tugged her hand loose
and crossed her arms, suddenly feeling naked without her corset. Darn that Mary Clare for talking her into wearing only the camisole under her shirt, but at least the sturdy bib rose over her bosom. Not waiting to see if his gaze had even returned to her face, she feigned a demure look away, searching for escape. Unfortunately, the bunkhouse doors were closed again. The house, behind her, was a better goal.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Visiting an ill relative?”

  That explanation would be easy to agree to, but who knew what suggestion he might make? He might offer to pay for a nurse or accompany her back to Derby. Besides, she wanted him to know the truth. She turned back to gauge his reaction. “I work here.”

  His eyes widened, his nostrils flared. “Work? Here? You must be kidding. I’ve lost my best illustrator to this…establishment.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Miss Masterson, whatever she’s paying you I’ll gladly double.” His next move came as if on a playhouse cue: Mr. Shearing reached into his inner pocket for his wallet.

  She shook her head, despite knowing it would do no good.

  “You’re the best illustrator in Derby, all of the Midlands for that matter. Name your price.” He fanned out five- and ten-pound notes, waiting.

  A fortune lay in that bit of folded leather. She squeezed her eyes shut, not daring to even consider speaking, for it appeared any figure she named, he would present—

  A whistle came from above them.

  They jerked around. The carriage driver had twisted in his seat, craning his neck to stare at them. “That’s a load o’ notes. Won’t earn that workin’ anywhere in the Basin, not even if you took to drawin’ mythical fungals and sayin’ you saw them. I’d take the lot, if I was you, miss.”